Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  She had trouble getting her thoughts back into the real world.

  "...all our brightness is made dark..."

  "Stop that." She'd spoken aloud. Her face was burning when she looked up at Van.

  He blinked under a heavy frown. "What'd you say?"

  Lila stuttered, finally forced out words. "I was just saying you're blaming yourself for something that's not even there. We're not having a drama."

  "Sure we are." His hearty humor lacked real enthusiasm and he watched her closely. "The saga of Bake's place. All-star cast. Everybody wants to see the little lady beat the system. Except for that rat, the developer."

  "Nobody sees you that way. Nobody sees me that way, either."

  "Yes they do." He squeezed her hand. "Especially Richards and everybody's friend, Martha Short."

  "Oh, stop it. You know them as well as I do. They're not like that."

  "They see you as part of their little village back in the day. I'm this heartless engine of change. They think I want to turn Lupine into Seattle."

  "Seattle in this valley? It'd stack higher than the moon."

  He laughed, then, "Seriously, those two lead any argument about improving this place - them and that screwball perennial mayor candidate. Then there's Odegaard. He keeps the rinky-dink craftsy crowd ready to fight anything. They'd all like to go back to 1950." He cut the air with his hand. "If things don't change, time tears them apart."

  That's not what the woman said.

  "...refuses any bounds. Even life."

  Van was still talking. "...you're part of change. Renewing a dead store, lumber and nails, is change."

  "It's been here since I can remember." She pulled her hand out of his grip.

  He said, "When you came back it was a heap. Don't get me wrong; I think them backing you up is great. But isn't it a bit hypocritical to accuse me of trying to 'change everything,' when you're doing the same thing?"

  She blazed at him, angry now, and eager for him to know it. "Don't call them hypocrites. They're not and I'm not. And I'm going to finish it. Tell your banker buddy."

  "I didn't mean... Look, we only have these arguments because I don't want to see you get hurt. You know Edward can't talk to me about your business, but I'm not blind. He doesn't have to tell me he's worried about you."

  "Come off it. He wouldn't worry about his mother. Unless she owed him money. I'll hang on until I find someone who'll give me a loan. Then I won't need his concern, or anyone else's. That includes you, Van."

  They confronted each other in silence long enough for some of the rigidity to flow from their muscles. Van spoke first."I think you have a good idea how much I care for you. Today's as close as we've come to a real argument. The dumb thing is, we always fuss about the same thing. Okay, can we just be a man and a woman and see where that takes us? No more arguments. I just want to make you want to be with me."

  She looked into his eyes. He held her gaze. His expression was troubled, but steady. When he took a tentative half-step closer she was once more aware of the aura of competence wrapped around him. And, once again, she was troubled by how tempting it was to be part of it.

  A person could do a lot worse. A lot have.

  If he doesn't want too much...

  "We can try."

  He grinned like a boy. "Great. That's what I was hoping. I want you to be sure."

  She smiled at him. It felt good, like it signaled something new and exciting in her life. He said, "I'm leaving while we're on a high note. Can a friend get a goodbye hug?"

  "For a friend," she said, and stepped into his arms.

  The earlier images stirred immediately. They fell away, though, easily displaced by that warm comfort she'd noted. It was almost a sense of sheltering.

  * * * * *

  It was noon when Zasu's sharp bark distracted Lila. The sanding was done by then, and she paused in the middle of applying stain to the wood. A glance at her watch confirmed that the dog's stomach was right on time. Oddly, though, Zasu was barking at the front door. Lila reached the porch just as George Weathers started up the steps. His pickup was next to the old gas pump island. A two-wheeled dolly leaned against it. He stopped on the first step, frowning. “Lila? You okay?" He answered his own question. "I have to tell you, you look beat. I’ll come back tomorrow. I mean, you’re not sick, or anything?”

  “I’m fine.” His expression let her know he wasn’t buying that. She shrugged. “Got a lot on my mind.”

  George relaxed slightly. “You need some chamomile tea. Sometimes when I’m campaigning Louise makes me drink so much I smell like a meadow. Sleep better, though. I was telling...”

  Quickly, she interrupted. “I don’t have any chamomile just now, but I’ve got some cinnamon-spice. I’d enjoy the company. Share with me.”

  Apologetically, George said, “Not today. I'm just delivering that Shopsmith. Got to teach you about it; show you how to get the most out of it. Amazing machine.”

  He nodded to his left and Lila was amazed to see large cardboard boxes and lumber piled on the end of the porch. "When...?" The question died unfinished. "I didn't hear a thing."

  “I been grunting up and down those stairs like a buffalo. Like I said, you're working too hard. I'll come back tomorrow.”

  She smiled at him. "You’re saying you’ll show me how to not cut off a finger. You don’t have to do that. It comes with a manual or something, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll be here tomorrow about nine, okay? Don’t go using it before then, please. Louise'd kill me if anything happened.” He pointed at the delivery. “Tool like that, you can make a proper workbench. We’ll make it. First project, like.”

  "I didn't order wood. I can't afford..."

  He cut her off. "Can't do without a workbench. When I told Louise you bought a Shopsmith, first word she said was, 'How's she going to use a thing like that?' and I said, 'I don't know,' and she said, 'You teach her. I'll watch the store while you do.' We argued."

  "Oh, George. An argument? I'm sorry. I'll tell her I don't need anything. I'll phone right now." She reached for her cell.

  "Never mind. You know Louise. Wasn't really an argument, anyhow. She said what she said, and I said, 'Do what?' and she said, 'You heard me,' and I believe I said, 'Oh.' So here we are."

  "You're the dearest man there is. And please, you tell Louise I just love her style."

  His smile was a bit strained. He said, "She's something, isn't she? I'll tell her, for sure."

  As soon as he left aching weariness reclaimed her. She forced herself to turn back to her unending project. What happened dazed her. She found herself remembering her first day in that room. Her efforts then hardly made a dent. Now all the old paint and varnish were gone. Exposed wood gleamed. Newly applied stain added atmosphere. The place was eager with expectation.

  She had to sit down. The two days of self-submerging frenzy hadn’t been pointless escape. She’d made serious progress. Before, this room rejected her like she was an intruder. Now it looked warm and wanted, as if Aunt Lila were present, features creased in a proud smile.

  Awed, she rose, pivoting slowly.

  Over there would be the display counter, glass-topped, row after row of flies. She saw them as clearly as if their tiny alien bodies with their weirdly wonderful names were already in place: Kaufmann’s Freight Train, red, white, and black; La Follette’s black and red; Summerberry with its flashing silver tail; the bristly, aptly titled Green Lantern. Scores of patterns, begging to show their prowess.

  On the wall behind that would be a cabinet with dozens of small drawers, each holding its supply of the raw materials necessary to make those designs. Gaudy peacock and pheasant feathers. White-tipped turkey and delicately speckled hackle. Fur, too; rabbit fur, deer hair. One whole section at the end for the manmade materials, the chenilles, the mylar, tinsel, wire. Further along, the tools and hardware of the craft.

  Fluorescent fixtures inside the cases would make all that dazzle and intricacy irresistible. Lila gri
nned, imagining the stunned, gotta-have-it faces of seduced fishermen.

  Little did they know of lures. Poor devils.

  The vision went on. A rack of fly rods over there. There, the spinning and casting gear. They’d get proper attention, of course, but fly fishing was to be king.

  Uncle Bake’s ugly old deer antler chandelier had to go right there. Completely politically incorrect, tacky testimony to a bygone esthetic, but Bake was proud of the thing. And over there, spang in front - Bake’s word - she'd cut in new, larger windows. The cash register would go there so she could look out at the lake and the mountains.

  Aloud, she said, “We’re getting there, Aunt Lila, Uncle Bake. Stay with me.”

  Martha’s voice jerked her around to face the front door. “Anyone home in there?”

  Zasu pushed aside the sprung screen door, a white ball of yapping excitement. Lila heard someone on the front steps and then Pastor Richards’ voice. “’Blessed are ye that hunger now: for ye shall be filled.’ We’ve got enough fried chicken for an army.” Martha entered like a queen with her footman behind. The Pastor carried a huge picnic basket and grin to match. Hands on hips, Martha scanned everything, darting eyes like light beams. She faced Lila and frowned. “The place looks grand. And you look like something the cat dragged in. Are you all right?”

  Lila said, “I'm fine: Zasu and I don't do high fashion. I'll dig up some overalls for you, if you want to pitch in.”

  “Not a chance.” Martha sniffed. “I’m a lady of a certain age, and I don’t do overalls, thank you very much. Where should Andy put the basket? His old joints are creaking. If I'm not careful I'll start feeling sad about it.”

  The Pastor bridled. “Don’t worry about me. Strong like bull. Hungry like wolf. Somebody decide something before I run off with the whole works.”

  Lila said, “It’s a pretty day - why not use one of the picnic benches out by the old firepits?” She moved to grip the basket handle so it hung between herself and the Pastor, saying, “Don’t think I’m being helpful. I’m making sure you don't get away with this.”

  He turned to Martha. “She’s onto me.”

  Martha told Lila, “I hope you’re hungry. We’ve got fried chicken, cornbread, biscuits, potato salad, and a custard pie to finish things off. And iced tea, of course.”

  The growl in Lila’s stomach was loud enough to draw a raised-eyebrows glance from Martha. Both women smothered laughter. Giving way to impulse, Lila let go of the basket and embraced her. Unexpectedly, unstoppable, tears came. The older woman held her tight, soothing. “It's going to be fine, Lila, it really is.”

  From the corner of her eye, Lila saw the Pastor unobtrusively leave with their lunch in hand. Lila realized he was affording them their privacy. The homely simplicity of the thing brought more tears.

  Lila said, “I’m a wreck, Martha. First George came with my new equipment, now you and the Pastor. Crow left. Van was here.”

  Martha swept an arm as if it held an imperial scepter. “Look what you’ve done. More than anyone thought, and you’ve done it faster. You’re special, Lila. You keep fighting. God never gives us a heavier load than we can carry.”

  Lila wiped away the last of the tears. She said, “You hang out with Pastor Richards too much. You’re beginning to talk like him.”

  Martha linked arms with Lila and marched her out the door. “We’re a couple of old trees. Not as strong as we were, so we lean into each other when the harder winds come. We have to take care of the younger trees, too; we won’t last forever and the forest has to go on.”

  “You can’t leave.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere just yet, but when I feel it’s time for me to take my break I mean to take it. Our problem isn’t me going. It’s you staying. Don’t you dare quit.”

  Lila nodded, tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I’ll try.”

  “Best anyone can do, hon. You’ll be fine.” By that time they reached the picnic area the Pastor had the meal spread. Martha asked him, “You know what I like most about you?” and without waiting for an answer told him, “You let somebody else do the preaching from time to time. I bet it just kills you.”

  “I take a slight artistic resentment.” He looked solemn enough to mean it, but added, “But I’m not so arrogant I think I can do a better job of understanding a woman better than another woman. I’m a country preacher, not one of the three wise men.”

  “What you are is a tricky old dev... man. Letting me do your work. So explain something, country preacher: Why’s God make a quiet little dream so darned hard? Especially for someone as nice as Lila Milam?”

  The Pastor laughed out loud. Nevertheless, Lila thought she saw something twist his features, something that didn’t belong there. Then he was comically pretending offense. “Quit picking on me. The world’s overloaded with heavy thinkers who argue questions like that. The rest of us keep our hands on the plow and do the best row we can.”

  “Piffle.” Martha sat on the bench with a flourish. “I know you. You’re smarter - yes, and tougher - than you let on. Now let’s eat.”

  * * * * *

  Later, in the car going back to town, Martha shifted continuously in her seat, shooting ill-concealed glances of affront at Pastor Richards. They had no effect on his preoccupation. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she said, “So maybe I shouldn't have asked about God and how hard all this has been for Lila. It's still a good question. Anyhow, I was just trying to make her feel better.”

  “Which you did.” He fell silent again for several seconds. Martha knew him well enough to let him work out what he wanted to say. Finally, he went on, “I quoted Luke when we got there. All I was thinking about was lunch. ‘Blessed are ye that hunger now: for ye shall be filled.’ Then I remembered the quote doesn't end there. It goes on, ‘Blessed are ye that weep now; for ye shall laugh.’ I’ve been praying Luke got that part right, too.”

  Chapter 12

  The river tumbled seaward with the single-minded eagerness of a young lover. On its banks dark green fir needles shrouded pillars of black-brown trunks. At their feet, like the flare of a gown, the softer green of brush crept even closer to the flow. Irregular sunlight tore rents in a scudding gray overcast as if the clouds were demonstrating that the Olympic Peninsula was their domain and the sun visited at their sufferance.

  Sitting on one of the boulders rising above the cobble shoreline, Crow shifted his attention downstream to four massive fir trunks stranded in the river’s course. Exposed roots reached upward in surrender. Smaller debris formed a seething jumble on their upstream flanks.

  Crow pondered the irony of huge trees that, so fixed in life, had wandered in death.

  Clumsy in waders, he slid to the ground. Major immediately leaned against him in silent reproach, reminding Crow he should never go anywhere where there wasn’t room for him, too. Compounding that failure, Crow picked his way knee-deep into clear water so cold the smell of glaciers still clung to it.

  His slender monofilament disappeared against the sky as it launched forward. In one of the infrequent sunbeam lances, the line glittered silver. Time after time Crow’s lure settled, was retrieved, cast again.

  He never considered a no-fish day a defeat. Immersed in nature, he was completely free. Hooking a good fish was wonderful. It wasn’t necessary. Today was one of the days when the outdoors alone would have to be enough. Crow reeled in and sloshed ashore. Major welcomed him back with his customary enthusiasm. When Crow started the hike back to the parked pickup, the dog happily fell in beside him.

  Soon after that they were at the Airstream in the privately-owned campground. Crow stowed his gear before starting the breakfast routine. He whistled while he mixed the pancake batter, the tune slowing in keeping with an expression that grew more and more contemplative. Spooning a trio of cakes on the griddle, he told his dog, "I was thinking about that woman. The one back in that crazy town. She called it Loopy Lupine. Got that right. I may have misjudged her, y
ou know? I mean, where's it say she has to tell me about her love life - or anything else? It's not like I'm good about sharing. Might be I overreacted."

  The need to flip the cakes broke Crow's reminiscence. His whistling grew lively again. Driving here, paralleling the Strait of Juan de Fuca, he'd bought some farm-made raspberry jam; settling at his table, he slathered it on the pancakes.

  It was customary for him to throw in a small treat from his own meal on top of Major’s kibble. He knew it was a foolish notion, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind that if the dog smelled all that good people-food it was downright cruel to make him subsist on something as deadly-dull as that packaged stuff. This morning Major got a sliver of pancake. “No jam,” Crow said sternly.

  The meal finished, everything cleaned and put away, the dog posed expectantly, leather leash dangling from his mouth. Crow clipped it to his collar. Outside, he said, "I hope that woman - the one in Lupine - knows how to keep a place squared away. Tackle shop - man, think of that inventory. I bet she's a good fisherman herself; she moves like an athlete and we know she's got a ton of patience."

  Major pretended interest before resuming important snuffling. Crow was unaware. Lost in his own thoughts, he remembered how carelessly he'd stolen time from Patricia and Joe to get outdoors, fishing and camping. It simply wasn't fun, Patricia explained after their second wet, cold weekend trip. Joe never took to the notion, either. Sport, to him, involved a ball or, at least, competition with another human. Solitude was something both mother and son avoided.

  He concentrated on his present location. It was a slope overlooking the gray-green of the Strait. Well-maintained dirt roads cut it into parcels, each separated from neighbors by a wooded privacy gap. There were only a handful of scattered tents, a trio of pickup-mounted campers, and one other motorhome.

  Major’s tours through any such site were a triumphal march. Adults were met with dignified reserve, amended to friendly tail wags after proper introductions. Youngsters infected him with instant puppy-reversion. He licked faces. He pranced in invitation to play. He yanked on his leash like a hooked shark. Not once had he ever bowled over a child, but the sight of all that muscularity, no matter how restrained, wasn't always welcome. Some kids yelled fear. When that happened his hurt was sorrowful to behold.