Hidden

by Catherine McKenzie

  “Sure, we’d like that.”

  If he flinched, it was only a tick of the clock. He glanced around the room. “This place looks the same as always.”

  “Nothing ever changes in Springfield.”

  “A few things do. One or two.”

  “Right. Sure.”

  We stood there sipping our drinks in silence, both of us probably wishing the women would reappear and fill the room with chatter.

  “Where did Dad get off to?” Tim asked eventually.

  “Lodge meeting, I think.”

  “Of course. Lemon chicken and lodge night. He inducted you yet?”

  “Me? No, no. Never.”

  “Never say never, brother.”

  I didn’t like this new way he had of calling me “brother,” like he needed to remind himself of who I was. Or maybe he was reminding me.

  “I guess. What about you? Any thoughts of settling down?”

  He laughed. “You sound like Mom.”

  “No one’s ever said that before. No one special?”

  “Nothing on the horizon at present. All the good girls seem to be taken.”

  I sipped my drink. “Mmm.”

  Silence crept over us again and I thought about refilling my glass.

  “What do you say to a private celebration?” Tim said.

  “What? You and me?”

  “You got anything better to do?”

  “No. I’m just … forget it.” I put my glass down. “Where’d you want to go?”

  “Hurley’s maybe?”

  “Sure. Let me tell Claire.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and twenty minutes later found us ensconced at the local bar. Tim ordered two rounds of shots, which proved to be the right amount of lubrication to wash away the years. As the drinks disappeared down our throats, we talked about safe subjects: remember-whens from our childhood.

  When last call sounded we were both cut, and for my part, I was feeling more warmly towards Tim than I had in years. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him, my goddamn older brother, the man I always wanted to be when I grew up.

  Tim seemed to feel the same as he slapped me on the back and suggested we walk the long way round to our parents’ house. I agreed, and as we stumbled home, we passed the edge of the Woods, its thick trees silhouetted against the sky.

  “Man,” I said, “I haven’t been in there in ages.”

  “Do you remember all those times we played … what was it again?”

  “You Can’t Get There from Here.”

  “Right, right. Say, let’s do it.”

  “What, now?”

  “Sure.”

  “But we don’t have any flashlights.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick ring of keys. A silver cylinder hung from it. He flicked a switch and a bright beam of light pooled around our feet.

  “This’ll do, won’t it?”

  “Aren’t you the Boy Scout.”

  He held up his hand in the three-fingered salute. “With merit badges and everything. You game?”

  I hesitated for a moment, but why not? The night seemed to be all about memories, and these were good ones.

  “Okay. Who’s spotter?”

  “We’ll flip for it.” He pulled out a quarter, getting ready to toss it. “Call it.”

  “Tails.”

  “Interesting choice.”

  He launched the quarter into the air and we watched it flip upwards, twinkling in the street light, disappearing into the dark, then reappearing in slow motion to land in the palm of his hand. He slapped his palm against the top of his other hand.

  “You sure about your choice?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He unveiled the coin. It was heads.

  “Do you think the old bell’s still there?” he asked.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  We walked into the Woods, our eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness. The half-full moon was enough to light the well-worn path. After a few minutes we came to a large, distinctive rock, our usual starting place. I sat on its cool surface.

  “Give me five minutes,” Tim said.

  I nodded and he started off down the path. I checked my watch for the time. 2:12.

  The rules of You Can’t Get There from Here are simple. It has to be played at night. Spotters are placed in the woods with flashlights. The Crawlers have to try to get past them without being lit up, to reach a bell that hangs from a tree a half a mile ahead. The first person to ring the bell is the winner.

  To be a good Crawler you need patience, silence, and a willingness to become one with the wet, boggy ground. To be a good Spotter you need good night vision and a sense of direction that allows you to hear past the disorienting sounds of movement in the dark. We all had our moments of glory growing up, but Tim was always the best, especially at spotting.

  2:17. Regretting the suit I’d considered appropriate for what I thought this night would be, I lowered myself to the moist ground about ten feet left of the path. My plan, such as it was, was to go in a semicircle around the path to arrive at the bell—assuming it was still hanging from the tree where we left it ten years ago—and hopefully avoid Tim.

  Within a few minutes, I was soaked through to the skin. My nostrils were full of the smell of decomposing leaves. I moved slowly, stopping often to listen to the sound of my own breathing, willing my ears to reach out into the dark and identify the other sounds. Was that Tim, an animal, or an old tree shifting in the night?

  I checked my watch, cupping my hand over its face to hide the light.

  2:32. I was half hoping my slowness and the amount of alcohol we’d consumed would lull Tim into a slumber.

  I should’ve known better. Within seconds of the numbers fading back to darkness I was enveloped in light.

  “Got you, brother,” Tim said, way closer than I expected. And why was the light so fucking bright?

  I turned onto my back to find Tim standing over me, shining the flashlight in my eyes. All I could see was his outline against the sky, like an actor in the floodlights. He looked enormous, a bear of a man, though I couldn’t see his face well enough to tell if he’d become fully Yeti.

  “Will you turn that goddamn thing off?”

  “Not until you say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “You know what.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tim. Who cares? You won. Enough. Help me up.”

  I held out my hand and the light snapped off. But instead of giving me his hand, Tim was on top of me, pinning me to the ground like he had so many times before, when he wanted to beat on me or teach me a lesson.

  “Say it,” he said. I could feel his hot, malty breath against my face.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Say it,” he repeated, and pressed my arms deeper into the mud.

  I could feel the back of me becoming as wet as the front, and I was starting to get pissed off.

  “Jesus, fuck, fine. You can’t get there from here.”

  “Too bloody right you can’t.” He gave me a final push, then released me and stood up. “You shouldn’t even be trying to.”

  I opened my mouth to answer him but stopped when I heard him turn and walk away. I knew it would be fruitless to call after him, that he was content to leave me there and let me find my own way home.

  So I lay there like that, watching the moon, trying to make sense of it all.

  Just me and the creaking dark.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Plot Thickens

  When we get home from the funeral, the house is already thick with people. It feels like the whole town’s here, though of course that isn’t possible. The whole town did send food; everyone’s hands and mouths are full of something. They seem to have forgotten to send alcohol, though. A vital omission.

  I wander through the house, being stopped and hugged every few seconds, like a repeat episode of The Day Jeff Died. I think this show should be cancelled. It’s always been a
terrible show.

  I nod and thank and agree. I’m becoming inured to hearing Jeff’s name in connection with his death. At least, I hope I am.

  I have an awkward discussion with Art Davies, all mumbled words and expressions of guilt.

  “Maybe Jeff was distracted because he felt so bad about firing me,” he says. “Maybe—”

  “No. Don’t put that on yourself, okay?”

  Don’t put that thought on me, I want to say. I don’t want to think about whether Jeff’s death was avoidable, who’s to blame. I don’t want to feel the emotions that would come with those kinds of thoughts. I’m already feeling too much, and too little.

  “But—” he says.

  Art’s wife tugs at his elbow. “This isn’t the time, Art. Come on, let’s go.”

  He sighs and mumbles an apology and then they are gone.

  The friends whose calls I haven’t been returning surround me, a buzz of protectiveness. But their sorrow is more than I want to feel too, and so I don’t really listen, don’t really say anything, don’t really feel anything.

  At some point, Seth tugs at the sleeve of my scratchy dress.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Was it … okay what I read?”

  I turn towards him. He looks small and embarrassed in his jacket and tie

  “Of course it was. It was perfect.”

  He stubs his toe at the ground. “It wasn’t … cheating?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like at school. How you have to do your own work?”

  “Darling, of course it’s not like that. Think about the minister. He was reading something someone else wrote, right?”

  “But that’s his job.”

  “I don’t think it’s so different. I’m really proud of you … that you were able to get up and speak. It was … more than I could do.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Mom. Dad would understand.”

  I pull him against me, hoping he’s right but still feeling disappointed in myself. His bones feel small, not quite sturdy enough to shoulder this present life.

  “I hope so.”

  I release him. He rubs his cheek where it connected with my dress.

  “Where’d you find that poem?” I ask. “I’ve never heard it before.”

  “Dad had it.”

  “He did? Where?”

  “In this book I found … please don’t be mad.”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “’Cuz I found it in his stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “His travel bag. In his office.”

  “Why were you looking in there?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  The house is loud and full, but we’re in a pocket of quiet, Seth and I.

  “Tell me.”

  “I feel like I’m starting to forget things, about, you know, him, and I thought if I held some of his things …”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “Are you forgetting?” he asks.

  “I’m sure I am, but I have so much more to remember, so I haven’t noticed yet, you see? We knew each other for a long time.”

  “My whole life.”

  “And then some. Are you hungry? You should eat.”

  “Do you think I could go upstairs instead? There are too many people down here.”

  “Of course.”

  I realize there’s no one Seth’s age in the house. Only a few of his friends were at the church. Did they not want to come to the funeral, or did their parents think they weren’t old enough to deal with what’s been thrust upon my son?

  “Why don’t you take off those clothes and put on something more comfortable? I’ll come up soon and we can be quiet together.”

  He agrees and walks towards the stairs, a hitch in his step.

  I stand there for a moment, uncertain of where I can stand to go next. I move eventually in the general direction of the kitchen, only to be stopped by Connie, my piano teacher.

  She stands rigidly in front of me, her arms crossed. She’s wearing a severe black jacket and skirt.

  “Hi, Connie. Thanks for coming.”

  She nods curtly. “Lessons start again next week.”

  “What?”

  “Next week.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to. I mean—”

  “You will come to the conservatory. We will see if you can. It is time to see.”

  She talks like a tennis ball machine, firing words at precise intervals.

  “I’ll try.”

  “I will expect you at noon.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It is your choice. Do as you wish.” She places a large, mannish hand on my shoulder. “You are strong, Claire. Come to the conservatory so you can remember.”

  She walks around me, headed towards the door. Tim’s standing there, shrugging off his coat. I catch his gaze. He holds it for a moment, then looks away. I watch as he stares into the sea of people in the living room. He raises his hand in greeting to someone and disappears from view.

  Several more people circle me, hug me, tell me how sorry they are. When I manage to escape, I go to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. I run the tap till the water is cold and start to fill a glass. I look out the window, wondering if I’ll ever be able to do so without thinking of the police car pulling up to divide my life in two.

  Today it all looks innocent, despite the unusual number of cars parked on the street. There’s a woman who looks vaguely familiar standing at the edge of the walkway. She raises a cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply, letting out the smoke in a long, slow stream.

  A cigarette. Yes, that’s what I need. I let the glass I’m holding slip from my hand and hurry to the hall closet and my coat. In a moment I’m out the door.

  “Please tell me you have another one of those,” I say.

  The woman turns her head, startled. She looks like she’s been crying.

  “Of course. Hold on.” She clamps her half-smoked cigarette between her teeth and peers inside her purse. She pulls out a red-and-white package and hands it to me. “Here you go.”

  I take the crinkly package and tap out a cigarette. The act of putting it in my mouth, catching a whiff of the tobacco, makes me want a drink, but I never did manage to find one inside.

  The woman holds a lighter at the end and flicks it on. I inhale quickly, twice, to make sure the cigarette is lit. The warm smoke sears my lungs. I can tell the exact moment the nicotine hits my bloodstream. Eight seconds, the time a rodeo cowboy has to stay on his bucking bronco.

  “These are getting hard to find,” the woman says. Her voice is vaguely familiar too.

  “Cigarettes?”

  “No, lighters.” She flashes the green plastic cylinder at me, then puts it in her coat pocket. “Used to be, everyone always had a lighter, even if they didn’t smoke. I had to go to three stores to find this one.”

  I take another haul, enjoying the illicit pleasure.

  “We probably should be hiding behind the shrubbery. If my parents see me with this, they’ll throw a fit.”

  A thin smile. “I know what you mean. My husband’s a doctor and if he only knew …” She takes a last drag, throws the cigarette to the ground, and grinds it out with a black ballet flat. “God, these things really are terrible. I thought it would help, but it doesn’t. Sorry, I’m babbling.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “The service was beautiful, by the way. I guess I should’ve started with that. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. It’s a … terrible thing.”

  “Thank you … you look familiar to me, but … do we know each other?”

  “Oh! I’m the company representative. Patricia Underhill, from the other Springfield? You can call me Tish.”

  Tish. Tish.

  “We met once,” she continues in a breathless rush. “You probably don’t remember? At that company retreat in Mexico, a couple of years back? We only
spoke for a few moments …”

  Mexico. Right. The first trip Jeff and I took alone together in forever. Things were mostly normal then. Things felt good. At dinner, like today, I’d slipped outside for a cigarette and found a woman about my age sitting on the edge of a retaining wall under the bright bougainvillea trees, crying.

  “Are you all right?” I’d asked.

  She looked up, embarrassed, hastily wiping her tears away. She was wearing a cocktail dress in a pretty colour (green?), and her long hair was loose and black against the moonlight. She obviously belonged to our party, but we hadn’t been introduced.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one intruding on your privacy.”

  “This place isn’t very private.”

  “I’m not the one who made you cry, right?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “So, then, no apology necessary.”

  “Thanks.” She stood up and wiped the dirt off her backside. “I’m Patricia. But people call me Tish.”

  “Claire. Wife or participant?”

  “Oh … participant, I guess. My husband’s inside.”

  “Mine too.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m a wife. At least, on this occasion.”

  She nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  I pulled a cigarette from my skirt pocket. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. I wish I could join you.”

  “You can if you like.”

  “I don’t really smoke. And my husband wouldn’t like it.” I held a flame to the end of my cigarette. “Why do you think I’m skulking out here?”

  She smiled, and she was quite lovely, in an understated way.

  We stood there in silence for a bit before Tish said, “This is going to sound strange, but … do you ever wish you could do your life over again?”

  “Everyone wishes that sometimes.”

  “I mean really actually do it, start again. See if you can get it right the second time around.” She shook herself. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear the inside of my brain. I’m having a weird night.”

  “Stop apologizing. I’ve had my share of weird nights. And yes, I think about that sometimes, but I don’t think it’s helpful.”

  “No, of course.”