by Don McQuinn
Martha hid her giggle behind her hand and confessed. “You know, you’re right. I was bragging about how I poke into everyone’s business.”
“You keep important things secret and help anyone who needs it. We love you.”
“Oh, stop it. Go sing a hymn or something.” She brushed at him as she would a pesky fly.
Pastor Richards moved toward the door. “It’s a nice evening. I think I’ll just walk about a bit.”
“Come back soon.” She linked her arm with his, headed for the door. “I don’t get to spend enough time with you.”
He patted her hand. “It’s mutual, my friend. But why spend time with me? You already know everything about me.”
Fortunately for Martha there’s nothing in theology that forbids a lady burying her elbow in a pastor’s ribs. Nor any prohibition against said pastor yelping in respectable imitation of a small dog like Zasu.
* * * * *
While he waited for Estelle to return, Crow recovered enough to admire his surroundings. Martha’s place was an old home turned into a restaurant with tables and chairs from a long-gone era. Electric lighting was muted, candles graced the tables. Paintings and photographs on the wall added nostalgia. He was the only lone diner in a restaurant at capacity.
That wasn't an unusual event for a man who prided himself on his distance from others. This time was different, however. He heard things in the forest-wind sigh of people speaking softly, intimately. He didn't hear the words. He heard feelings that crossed between speakers as softly as moths chasing light, confirmations of togetherness.
As much as he determined to be separate, he resented being reminded of his loss. Patricia loved evenings out. To her, those other people were part of her experience. Because of her, it had been part of Crow's.
That was then.
Their dinner evenings weren't exactly frugal, but on his income, they were carefully monitored. They never ordered wine. Patricia insisted he have a drink before dinner. She knew how much he enjoyed it, and the look in her eye when he savored it made the cheapest bar whiskey go down like American Eagle Rare. Not that she'd let him order cheap stuff. She knew her man. When he ordered whiskey and water, she'd stop the waiter and name a brand. Then she'd send Crow one of those smiles that tells a man he's being spoiled. Tells him he deserves it.
Crow basked in that smile like an old dog sprawled on sun-baked macadam.
How many times had that smile energized his hand, driven it across the table to touch her? How many times had he caressed her cheek and watched her tilt her head to it, her soft flesh pressing his toughened hide?
Did she ever think of that hand so covered in blood that it drew flies?
The thought pulled his head back as sharply as if he'd been hit in the mouth.
The thing in my head, trying to break free.
It's not going to happen now.
He forced himself to picture other times.
The first time they took little Joe with them to an expensive restaurant. What Patricia called a splurge shop. Crow always felt a bit uncomfortable in them. In his eyes, people went there to work hard at eating. Patricia loved those evenings. She delighted in the fine food, the colors, the decor, the aura. It was a rare treat. She made the most of it.
That first time with little Joe she was the image of patience and reassurance. She made it clear she expected his very best behavior. She also held him close and told him the important thing was that he enjoy it as much as his dad and mom enjoyed having him along. She tickled him until he squealed, telling him they were taking him to show him off because he was such a handsome devil.
And he carried it off like a tiny duke. He called the waitress ma'am in a clear, honest voice. He ordered from the children's menu as if he were dining at Mario Battali's table. He only looked to Patricia after the waitress had taken all the orders and left. When she told him she was proud of him, he nodded and said, "That's what I wanted." Then, when dinner was over, the waitress brought Joe a huge slab of apple pie with ice cream and caramel sauce. She winked at him when she put it down and told him, "This is from me and the hostess. Call us in fifteen years or so, ok? But call me first." Joe squirmed, but he held on to his dignity. He said, "I would, but I don't have your number," and she laughed and said, "We'll give you the number when it's time." Crow thought Patricia would explode with suppressed laughter.
Crow remembered thinking he'd seen a boy's mind straining to find the right path. He didn't know how to tell him that. After the dessert was eaten, however, what he did say was, "You know, you're a really great kid. Just so you know, I love you." Joe, sober as any general, looked his father in the eye and just said, "Thank you, sir. I love you, too. I tried to do like you do."
Crow's eyes burned. The thing inside his head was chained again, forgotten.
That was the world.
It's not that way anymore. No one has any right to ask me to be part of any world now. Not after how things turned out.
The only thing that matters is using up today.
When a man lost so much and seen so much, he deserves all the distance he wants. He's earned separation.
Estelle brought his drink. She recommended the roast beef. He agreed. He was adding a smidgen of water to his whiskey to open the aroma when Martha reappeared at his table. She looked uncomfortable. She said, “Mr. Crow, would you mind sharing your table? I’m full, and a lady just came in that I don’t want to turn away or she’ll have to go down the street to the Silver Dollar. I mean, I’m not saying Jerry’s food’s greasy or unhealthy, but...” She rolled her eyes in powerful indictment.
Crow didn’t care if the unknown Jerry’s food was toxic. Inwardly, he winced at the prospect of small talk with some female full of household hints and oblique references to her delicate digestion. He pulled himself together, forced himself into social mode and put the best face on it he could. “Sure,” he said, “But only because you didn’t cheat me on my whiskey. This time.”
Martha grinned and hurried away. From the corner of his eye, Crow caught her return. He rose. A familiar voice said, “Oh, don’t get up,” and the silence that followed hummed with surprise.
Crow recognized Lila instantly. The ravages of her day’s labor were washed away. The eyes were the same intense blue, but her mouth lacked the earlier grimness. Actually, it was a nice mouth, tentatively working at a shy smile. He thought back to the pleasure of hearing her unexpected laughter that morning. Despite the peculiar sadness lurking in it.
Sleeves of a lemon yellow sweater were knotted around her neck so it hung across her back like a shawl. Crow thought it was very effective, made moreso by the green blouse and especially her candlelight-burnished hair.
“A pleasure, ma’am.” Crow looked to Martha. “This lady recommended your restaurant.”
Beaming, Martha said, “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She patted Lila’s arm. “I should tell you dinner’s on the house, but I won’t because I need the money.” Suddenly shrewd, her gaze flicked between Crow and Lila. “How long have you two known each other?”
Lila stammered. Crow stepped into the awkward moment. “I turned into her place earlier today. She gave me directions to the county park where I could put my mobile home.”
Martha’s inspection turned a bit speculative, but she spoke casually. “Well, you have a nice chat. You’ll love the food.”
Sitting across from Crow, the woman’s shyness seemed to deepen, but she held his gaze. She said, “You told me your name earlier. I should’ve done the same. I’m Lila Milam.”
“Lila Milam and Zasu. Could be a nightclub act.”
In her quiet laughter Crow thought he heard more of the troublesome sad undercurrent. Curiosity snagged his mind, but he shut it out and asked, “Would you mind if I call you Lila? Ms. Milam sounds like I’m talking to my sixth grade teacher.”
“Please do. I didn’t like my sixth grade teacher.”
“I did. Mrs. Murphy. Little bitty thing. Temper like a cutting torch.”
Entering into the improving atmosphere, she said, “I think I know how you found that out.”
He rocked back in fake surprise. “You went to our school?”
She sobered a little. “Look, I want to say I was too sharp today. I’m sorry about that. You see, it’s the store. Not just that. It’s...” She stopped and Crow saw all their budding enjoyment of each other’s company evaporate. Before he could react, she was rising. Politeness required he do the same. Surprised, she glanced around in embarrassment and hurriedly sat back down. Again, Crow followed her lead. Flickering candle flame accentuated her agitation.
Gently, Crow said, “Can I ask what’s wrong?” and a mean voice in his mind snapped at him to shut up and back off.
Looking away, she sighed. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your dinner. I’d never have intruded on you, but Martha can be so insistent and the Silver Dollar...” After a pause, she added, “When Estelle comes around, I’ll tell her I’m waiting for a table to open.”
Crow knew he should let it go right there and guarantee his solitude. Nevertheless, this felt more like walking away from someone injured. He said, “Did I say something out of line?”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She brushed the air with both hands. The candle flame fluttered and she glared at it. “It’s just me. Ignore me.”
“Too late. Maybe before, when you were in dirty-faced urchin mode.”
Appreciation soft as smoke touched her features. She said, “It’s not only wanting to be alone. I was sure you’d be - you know, irritable - the thing with the dogs, and all. You’re being pleasant.” She looked away.
The inner voice shouted at Crow that explanations always led to complications. To compromise with it, he kept things light. “You’re saying you’re upset because I’m not upset?”
“Now you really are making fun of me.”
There was that look again, the one that said a decision had been made and forget the consequences. She went on, “Look, when Martha talked me into sitting here, I thought being alone tonight might not be my best move. I hoped maybe you’d be kind of grouchy and distant and I’d blab my troubles and you’d sit there like a lump and pretend to listen and then you’d be gone and I’d have gotten a lot of stuff out of my system, stuff you’d forget before you left the restaurant. Am I talking too fast? Never mind. Anyhow, that’s not how you are. If I talked to you like that, you’d try to understand, but then you’d decide I’m just another silly woman looking for sympathy. Did any of that make sense?” Before he could answer, she leaned forward in accusation. “I don’t need anyone’s sympathy.”
Crow took a good hit on his drink and sat straighter. “You always do other people’s thinking for them? Or do I seem so dumb you feel obliged to make a special effort for me?”
“I didn’t mean that. I just thought...”
“Let me tell you something. You got me right. I’m willing to pass the time with most people, but I never get involved. Never. Say anything you want. Tomorrow I’ll be gone for good. Like you said, you’ll feel better, and I won’t be bothered.”
She looked into his eyes briefly before studying the candle flame.
He silently cheered her uncertainty. He’d done the right thing and offered companionship. She'd never take him up on it. After all, only fools confided anything.
Why wasn't that fact as satisfying right now as it had always been before?
Words tumbled out of him again. “I’ve been told airing a problem gives you better perception. I wouldn’t know. I do know to avoid making judgments. I get judged all the time. Mostly, it’s people saying that living outside regular society’s a refusal to accept responsibility. Who cares? I get along fine. Believe me, anything you tell me, that’s as far as it goes. I’m neutral ground.” Even as he heard himself speak he wished he could grab each syllable out of the air and crush it.
Her answer came slowly. “I have a feeling you earned the way you live.”
Estelle swooped down on them, order pad in hand, and he was saved from himself. Estelle said, “Good roast beef tonight, Ms. Milam. We’ve also got a chicken Marsala that’ll make you want to kiss the cook.” She poured their coffee without wasting time asking if they wanted it. She knew. This was Lupine.
Lila chose the chicken and Estelle left as fast as she came.
Crow said, “She called you Ms. Milam. That suggests you’re not one of the natives.”
“I’m not.” Lila looked puzzled for a moment, then, “Oh, you’re thinking about Bake’s place. That’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time. Will you have a drink?”
She hesitated for a long moment. “A glass of wine. Not until dinner comes, please. No story, though. It’s too messed up.” She ducked her head and peered up at him. Her eyes danced with surprising mischief. She said, “You don’t get involved, remember? And one of us has decided she doesn’t want to be involved either. Are we even?”
Crow’s jaw tightened. He never allowed himself to develop an interest in someone. Now he’d let it happen and she was closing him out. Turnabout. He laughed loud enough to draw attention from several diners. “More than even. More like ‘Take that.’”
She leaned back in her chair. “Okay, we’re good to go. Dinner, pointless small talk, and two strangers get on with our lives. Deal?”
“Deal.” He pushed the aside the candle in the middle of the table, reached, and they shook on it. He barely stifled a reflex that wanted to widen his eyes: How did a woman do so much manual labor with hands so small, or keep them so soft?
Chapter 4
Their bargain lasted through dinner.
Estelle was refilling the coffee cups one last time when a voice behind Crow said, “Evening, Lila." She looked up, smiling. The voice continued, "Saw your car down the street and guessed you were here. I apologize for interrupting, but I didn’t want to go home without asking how things are.”
Pastor Richards positioned himself between them. Lila caught his frank interest in her dinner companion. It warmed her even as it amused her. Crow rose slowly.
Sudden awareness of their similarity intrigued her. Crow might be many things, but he was no preacher. Nor should there have been any hint of Crow in Pastor Richards. There was, though. She sensed each had touched flame and come away seared, yet affirmed in self.
A shiver pinpricked her spine. There was another impression from Crow. His quiet control whispered that he knew his own capability for violence. When Crow suggested the Pastor join them, it barely penetrated her internalization. Fortunately, they started talking like old friends, unaware she remained practically withdrawn.
Male, Lila thought. That was quintessentially Crow. At least he didn’t wear his maleness like a feather in his hat. Pastor Richards was male, too, of course. A father figure, caring and open. Crow was approachable and determinedly unreachable.
Huge differences. Small similarities. Yet some invisible thread bonded them instantly.
She supposed there were women who’d find Crow attractive. If you could get interested in someone who looked like he’d been hammered out on an anvil. A nice sense of humor, though. Interesting eyes; icy blue. She wondered if he had any idea how his changing expressions sometimes revealed his thoughts before he spoke.
It was when he did speak of himself that he turned impenetrable. The way he described his lifestyle came without apology or boast. She realized with a small start that that was quite irritating: Everything about him just was. Not that she cared.
When she twisted her head her hair rippled across her shoulder. She almost reached to assure it wasn’t in disarray. She checked the move, not wanting them to notice.
That irritated her further. Why should she care? Especially about Crow. Stubborn loner. His problem. Everybody had at least one. She concentrated on the Pastor. Crinkled smile lines at the corners of the eyes and mouth and the thinning hair made her think of time passing. His hands on the table showed the slightly enlarged knuckles of oncoming arthritis and the s
kin had a fragile-leather look. His eyes, though - that’s where you saw him best. Their calm green, like spring’s earliest welcome, were rich with the knowledge of certain renewal.
Pastor Richards interrupted Lila’s observations with a question. “So how’s your project going?”
“I’m dealing with it.”
For a moment it appeared Richards might pursue it. Instead he rose, saying, “You know I'll help any way and any time I can,” and to Crow, “Sorry to interrupt.”
Crow said, “No trouble at all, Padre.”
As soon as Pastor Richards was gone, Lila said, “What’d you think of him?”
“He’s pleasant. His line of work, it's kind of necessary. He likes you.”
Lila ignored the last. “That’s it? Aren’t you curious to know how long he’s lived here? If he’s got family? His denomination?”
“No.”
“How can you live like that? I mean, I’m not all that close to everyone, but I want to know something about them. I like to feel they’re interested in me." She paused, eyes widening, and continued as if surprised and musing about it. "That's why I'm here. In Lupine. I want to be where I belong. I have a dream, so that's who I am. You, you’re just a prickly old cocklebur.” A sly smile took her back to her original manner.
“Character assassination. What happened to pointless small talk? What's your Pastor say about broken deals?”
She made a face of mock exasperation. Crow almost laughed aloud. Lila went on, "He's the reason I'm living here, working on the store."
Crow raised his eyebrows and waited. She said, "The day after I graduated high school I left home. I got a job keeping records for a company that supplied supermarkets. You've heard of left-brain, right-brain? This was dead brain. Just for fun one day I did some ad copy for produce. Stuff like 'Our beets beat their beets" and "Maybe the other guy's cantaloupe can't but ours can." I sent it to some other employees. Next I'm telling the boss I was just playing with the computer on my lunch hour. He fired me anyhow. The next day our biggest client hired me to write more."