Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  Patricia should have told me. All her strength, all her concern, went to her husband and her son. She had nothing left for herself.

  Joe said it: “You killed her. Death’s what you do. Are you proud now?”

  Until Joe blamed him - before Patricia took everything with her into death - the red dreams were just memories that got out of hand for a few minutes. A man faced them down.

  “You killed her.”

  My wife. His mother.

  He opened his eyes and rolled his head from side to side. Loosening muscles slid across each other like slabs of grease. More secure with each step, he moved to the water’s edge where he hefted a softball-sized rock and heaved it. Impact sent up a plume of spray. Rushing current swept the splash downstream.

  Just the night before - so long ago - the woman named Lila told him she pictured the river carrying away her troubles.

  Throwing a another rock, then another, built his relief. He smiled, savoring the intoxication of being in control. A man who controlled himself gave himself time.

  Time was both answer and question, though. How much time would it take to heal from the past?

  Retracing his steps across the street he stopped abruptly, staring. While he’d been thinking of time, he was only a few yards from a shop with an old-fashioned hanging sign as large as a card table that said Horologist in ornate gilt. There was a clock in each of the shop’s twin windows, each at least four feet tall. Incredibly, the exposed works and freeform structure were exotic woods. Necessary metal was polished to a dazzle. Each piece was unique in the artistic rendering of the machine's mechanical demands. The pendulums, one spherical, the other a cube, swayed in perfect unison. Wooden gears ticked meticulous circles.

  Crow was tempted to go inside for a closer look. The machines were intriguing. Besides, concentrating on something else helped deflect the flashbacks. He checked his watch and decided to do it.

  The sound of two dozen more working clocks greeted his entrance. Rather than clacking, the wooden parts generated busy mumble he found soothing. Every instrument was large, the smallest about two feet square. A grandfather clock was at least seven feet high.

  A man stepped through a door that revealed the workshop in back. Well into middle age, he was a blocky, bearded figure in white coveralls speckled with sawdust. Beard, leonine mane, and flowing eyebrows roosting over gold-rimmed glasses were all solid gray. He regarded Crow with a smile wide enough to allow gleaming teeth to peer through the brush. He carried his head at a peculiar angle, nose tilted skyward, but maintained eye contact with Crow while he brushed at the sawdust, saying, “Mornin’. Welcome to my shop. I’m Herman Odegaard. If you see anything you like, have questions, whatever, just sing out.” He waved an arm. “Store’s all yours.”

  Crow knew the sound of a bad upper plate when he heard it. Herman’s sibilants rode the air on a tiny whistle. The fluting background notes made Crow think of a magazine article about Victorian English who believed fairies had parties at the bottom of the garden.

  Herman continued, “Some people get uncomfortable in here. All that tick-tock makes them feel time’s making them older. Poppycock.”

  It got Crow's attention. No one said poppycock.

  Herman seized on Crow’s interest. “You think much of time? About what it is, I mean?”

  Recovered, Crow said, “No,” and was turning away when Herman said, “You notice I set my clocks for different time zones?”

  “No.”

  For most people the response would have cut off the meager conversational gambit. Not so Herman. “Time affects us in different ways in different places. Time’s really an unpredictable friend. She can help you, hurt you, or just generally mess up your mind.” Herman pointed. “That wall clock? Oak flywheel, brass pendulum? That’s Greenwich, where time starts. Is that just like the Brits? Tell the whole world what time it is?” Warming to his theme, he gestured dramatically, endangering several thousand dollars worth of art. “I look at my Greenwich clock and I want a good cup of British tea. I mean crave it. Is that rational? No. It’s how time and place and culture are all jumbled up. Our poor brain can’t always sort them out.”

  Herman bent forward, head still oddly tilted. He noticed Crow’s reflexive withdrawal. Undisturbed, Herman explained. “Bifocals. Slip down on my nose, have to lean my head back to focus on folks.”

  Crow couldn’t help himself. “Can’t you get glasses that fit?”

  “No need. I just leave them where they stop skidding. It makes me see the world a few degrees off plumb, but doesn’t everyone?” Without waiting for an answer, Herman continued, “A tourist bought a clock last week. I looked at the Greenwich piece while I was wrapping it. I offered to put it in the boot of his car. Greenwich time made me say boot instead of trunk. Jumbled, don’t you see?”

  “Not entirely.”

  Undeterred, Herman said, “I told Doris I discovered a phenomenon. Doris - my wife. Know what she said? ‘You spend too much time in the shop.’ You catch that? Time. Again. What’s too much? Not enough? Time’s not just sunup, sundown. It’s culture.” A hand jabbed out like a weapon, pointed at a daring design, jutting angles and edges. “Look, that’s New York. Had to rework it three times. Kept running fast. Coincidence? I think not. We're affected by time in lots of ways we’re not even aware of. No one changes time, though, any more than they save it wisely or spend it foolishly. Time does what it wants. If we’re smart, we join it and enjoy it.”

  Crow said, “Interesting.” He headed for the door. “Thanks for letting me look around. You do great work.”

  The beard broke to expose another smile. “I’m not so modest I don’t think I’m pretty darned good, but I’m not ready to call myself great. Thanks, though. You come back any time, hear? I promise not to talk your arm off again.”

  “I enjoyed it.”

  “Are you the stranger who had dinner at Martha’s last night? The Marine?

  Crow could only nod and stare. If Herman thought his questions were unusual, he gave no sign. He said, “Figured you might be. You were pretty tight-jawed when you came in and she said you look like you run pretty deep. Some folks have a look - a sort of way about them - tells me they've packed more than usual into however long they've been among us. Makes me appreciate your service all the more. I hope from now on time’s good to you.” He winked. “For as long as time matters.”

  Crow smiled back, half-saluted appreciation, and ambled toward his pickup. He wondered how Herman would react to a man whose concept of time was near-constant warfare with no goal but forgetfulness?

  Major showered him with his usual over-zealous welcome, then suddenly slowed. He continued to wag his tail, but it was tentative. His head cocked to the side.

  Crow took an ear in each hand and tugged gently. He said, “You know the red trouble tried to grab me again, don’t you, buddy? You think you should be there when it happens, but I’m fine.” He started the engine. “We’re out of here tomorrow morning. You ought to see the clocks that old boy Herman makes. Bunch of characters around here. At least Herman knows he's weird. First thing tomorrow, though, we fish the lake. Old Smitty‘d never forgive me if I didn’t wet a memorial line there for him. Then we’re gone.”

  By the time they reached the campsite, it was dark. Crow was restless, as if he'd left something important undone. Trying to establish his routine, he settled into the Airstream, turning on the heater and the coffee machine. While the place warmed and the fresh brew livened the air, he turned on a Randy Travis disc and settled in his chair. Major took his usual position on the floor beside him. Soon, cup in hand, Crow picked up his latest book. For a few minutes he forced himself to plow through the reading. The word scattered, creating no images or insights.

  Heaving to his feet, he put the book down and swallowed the last of his coffee. From the drawer of the end table he drew a box of stationery and a pen. Major, already at the trailer door, followed him outside. It took a while for Crow to get the small fire started
at the camp’s cook site; when the flames gave enough light and warmth he took a sheet of paper from the box and, using it as his desk, wrote.

  * * * * *

  Dear Patricia,

  I think you’d like this town. I’m outside by a campfire. Stars are thick as seeds in blackberry jam. If you were here, you’d be scolding me for staying up when I mean to be on the lake at first light. I know, I know - you don’t scold; it’s your way of worrying about my health. It's fine, incidentally. I haven’t had so much as an aspirin in months. I’m better; I really am. The red dreams hardly ever come anymore. I’m beating them. You always said they’d pass. I wish I could tell you they’re gone, because I know it bothers you. I've told you before how sorry I am they got worse after you had to leave. I’m on top of it now. though.

  Missing you’s another thing. I hope the letters help you as much as they help me. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't talk to you. Maybe that’s the most important thing about loving someone. I mean, the best happiness is quiet. It’s when things get rough we need someone. Like, I never wanted you to know about my dreams, but inside I was glad you were there when they happened.

  Why did you always help me so much and why couldn’t I help you more? I’m not angry about it. Honest, I’m not. I was. I won’t deny that. But it was like being angry with you. I couldn’t do that. The blame was never yours.

  Why am I rambling? I started out to tell you what a nice place this is and the next thing I know, I’m babbling. We sure had our times, though, didn’t we? I guess we were the only two people in the world who believed we’d stay married, as different as we were. What folks never understood is how strong you are.

  Crow fiddled with the pen, looking deep into the coals, watching red and black creep in unending design. Searching beyond that, he could barely make out the nearest trees. Further away, starlight picked at the black, still surface of the lake.

  He crossed out the word are in how strong you are and replaced it with were. He looked at the correction for a long time before he wrote again.

  Anyhow, I’m leaving here tomorrow. I might come back some day. Really good fishing. I believe you’d like the people here. There’s one woman, in particular. Funny, she doesn’t remind me of you in the least, but she makes me think about you. Strange. I wish you were here to explain it to me. Along with a million other things.

  I’ll close now. I wish I could hold you. I will, one of these days. I miss you. No one ever missed anyone so much, my Patricia.

  Your loving husband,

  Crow.

  Leaning closer to the remaining embers, he squinted to re-read the letter. Taking an envelope from the box, he folded the paper into it, sealed it, and addressed it with just her name.

  When it landed on the smoldering remains of the fire, it lay still for a moment. Smoke quickly curled around its edges. It writhed. Darkness smeared the center, spreading outward. Suddenly it burst into flame with the sound of a weary sigh.

  Soon after it burned out Crow retrieved the bucket of water standing a few yards away. He sluiced the coals, the hiss sinister in the rush of darkness. After muddling the ashes and further watering he retreated to the Airstream. He paused at the door for a last look at the infinity of stars. He told himself she was reading his letter already; she’d be happy for him because tomorrow he’d be headed for the next - better - place.

  Chapter 9

  Major leaped ashore at the rasp of lakeshore gravel under the inflatable’s bow. Crow threw him a line. Growling enthusiasm, the dog grabbed it and hauled. Crow hopped over the side. The change of weight sent Major lunging backward so fast Crow had to dodge to avoid being run over by his own boat.

  Hoisting the vessel onto the bed of the pickup, he told Major, “I think after a zero-nibble morning I deserve a better breakfast than cereal. We’ll drive to town, come back here, hook up, and shove off. What do you say?”

  Major grinned and panted.

  Taking that for a yes - and with images of Martha’s food dancing in his head - Crow washed up, changed into a clean shirt and fresh levis. In town he slipped Major a handful of kibble with an apology. “You’ll get a real breakfast back at the campsite, okay?”

  The bribe disappeared as if inhaled.

  Martha looked up at Crow's entry and smiled. He waved back, noting her white-on-white sweater and blouse and the black skirt. With her gray hair tied back he thought she looked fit for a portrait. She greeted him with pleased surprise. “You decided to stay a while.”

  “Just for breakfast.” He added, "You look nice this morning - made me think of Norman Rockwell."

  "Oh, my. I've seen a lot of his paintings. What a nice compliment. Thank you.'" Then, in a determined return to character, she sniffed. “Darn it, Crow, you ought to settle someplace. Here would be good; you could say nice things to me all the time. All this traveling - pretty soon you won’t even remember where you’ve been.”

  “A person can do too much remembering.” It was said pleasantly, but Martha’s hand rose in an involuntary gesture as though she’d touch him. Instead, she indicated a table. Handing him a menu, she left with a troubled frown.

  Half-way through a stack of buttermilk pancakes Crow thought might be light enough to hang in midair, he looked up to see George Weathers bearing down on him. Crow tried to convince himself he wasn’t the target. George’s determined advance left no doubt. He stopped directly across the table from Crow, both hands on the back of a chair, statesman-like. Bib overalls, aloha shirt, and a baseball cap drained most of the dignity from the image. He said, “Have you considered settling here, Mr. Crow? Crow is your last name, isn’t it?”

  Crow sipped his coffee. “No and yes.”

  “Oh.” George’s manner lost some of its starchy forcefulness. “Oh,” he said again, “I get it. No, you haven’t considered settling here and Yes, your last name’s Crow.”

  Crow nodded and continued eating.

  George said, “Mind if I join you for a minute?” and slipped into the chair too fast to leave room for choice.

  Martha appeared with a coffee carafe. Crow detected a touch of disapproval when she greeted George and filled both cups.

  Crow thanked her politely, but it was in his mind that eating alone was an alien concept in Lupine. In fact, one more weirdo like George Weathers or Herman Odegaard and the whole place would qualify as a free-range asylum.

  George went on. “Lupine’s a great place. Seattle’s not that far. Some people commute. You wouldn’t be doing that, though. Being retired, like.”

  Unwilling to speak through a mouthful of pancakes, Crow shook his head. George pressed on. “Are you a registered voter? In this state, I mean?”

  Crow stopped chewing and swallowed a bit sooner than he meant to. “No.”

  “Too bad. I was going to say if you decide to live here, I’d appreciate your vote for me for mayor.”

  “There's an election soon?”

  “No, no, no.” George's laugh was a bit forced. “I campaign full time. That’s just the way it is, nowadays. Truth be told, I lost the last one. Pretty bad. The one before that, too.”

  He sounded so sad Crow felt obliged to offer sympathy. “Well, maybe this next one.” He pushed his empty plate aside and covertly searched for Martha. His breakfast check was rapidly becoming a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

  “It can be discouraging, Mr. Crow. Losing stings, but you come out harder next time. You lose ten elections in a row, though, and it gets old. ‘Wearisome,’ my wife calls it.”

  Crow coughed. “Ten?” Too intrigued to think clearly, he plunged deeper into Wonderland. “How long is the mayor's term?”

  “Two years. Seems a lot longer when you’ve lost. The fifth one - or maybe it was the sixth - was the worst. Marvin Merritt came out of nowhere.”

  Abandoning subtlety, Crow waved at Martha like a drowning man. “I hope he did a good job.”

  “Marvin? Oh, he lost too. His wife Noreen won. Just as well; the power behind the throne, you know?
Marvin was third. Don’t recall who took second.”

  Martha hurried toward them, writing the check. She put it on the table and scolded George. “You talking mayor again? My customers don’t come in here to get blabbed at by a vote junkie.”

  Sheepishly, George defended himself. “This was different. He’s not from here.”

  She turned to Crow, apologetic. “I should have told him to scat when he showed up at your table. He can’t help himself.”

  Crow rose. “No harm done. It’s hard to fault a man for working on his dream.”

  “Unless you have to hear it all the time.” Martha still sounded firm, but her hand went to George’s shoulder. “I hope he wins sometime. Serve him right.”

  The culprit smiled.

  Walking beside Crow to the front of the restaurant, Martha said, “George is a good man. Do anything for you. Please, don’t misjudge him.”

  “Making judgments is a dangerous hobby. Even the experts throw some rounds out of the black.”

  That got him a sideways look from Martha. “Out of the black?”

  “Sorry. Rifle range jargon. ‘In the black’ means good. You’d say ‘bull’s eye.’”

  Her smile was approving. “Good way to put it. George’s sound as anyone. Except for the goofy mayor thing.”

  They both looked to where George still sat, looking off into space as if composing the speech that would launch a Weathers landslide.

  While Martha made change, Crow examined the tiny work station. No souvenirs or impulse-buy items marred the glossy oak counter. One poster on the wall behind it, listing churches and civic organizations. Pride of place belonged to an antique cash register. Massive and ornate, it loomed regally over the darkly efficient-looking electronics ranged beside it.

  Pocketing his change, Crow realized Martha was examining him closely. He moved quickly to leave. Her contemplative words stopped him. “I bet you were a good shot.”

  “I worked at it. My trade, you might say. No different than you, here.”