Dark to Mortal Eyes

by Eric Wilson

  Well, almost anything.

  Be prepared …

  His father’s eagle scout motto tramped through Marsh’s head as he turned toward his chair in the study. From boyhood, Marsh had striven to follow those words, to be prepared—like his father. He had no memory of Chance Addison, knew only what his mother told him of a tall, proud man who had spoken sparingly and, after the war, laughed far too infrequently.

  One day, arriving home early from middle school, Marsh had found his mother in the sitting room sifting through a box of memorabilia.

  “What’re those?”

  “Photos,” said Virginia. “Some of your father’s things.”

  “Why don’t you ever talk about him?”

  “Don’t see a need. Nothing more you should know for now.”

  “Shoot, Mom, I’m thirteen. Old enough to know something at least.”

  “There’s nothing to say that’ll change things. Won’t bring him back now, will it?” Virginia Addison handed him a photo in a silver frame. “That’s him. Nineteen years old and not much bigger than you, Son.” Angled in the sunlight, the picture showed Chance’s thumbs hitched into Wrangler belt loops as an elbow steadied him against a plow handle. In the background, fingers of clouds combed the ridge that would later bear his name.

  “Wish my dad was still here.”

  “That was just after he bought this place,” Virginia said. “He was feeling mighty proud of himself there.”

  In the spring of 1941, she told him, Chance had received a modest inheritance from an aunt and purchased this colonial home on a hillside north of Corvallis. His dream was to cultivate one of Oregon’s first commercial vineyards. Instead, following the December attack at Pearl Harbor, he found himself training at nearby Camp Adair, where he met and eventually married Virginia Drake.

  “I was just a farm girl. Made regular milk deliveries to the mess hall.”

  “And the sparks flew, huh?”

  “What do you know about that sort of thing?” She brushed off a humble wedding album, thumbed through the pages. “Sad thing is, your father and I never did have a proper honeymoon.”

  “Ooh, yuck. Don’t wanna hear any of that romance junk anyway.”

  His mother’s head was shrouded in memories. “Chance always said we’d take one after the war, but we never did. The vineyard was his focus. Things to be done, work on the ridge to be kept up.”

  “Still is.”

  “You do your fair share, Marsh. Yes, you do.” She took the photo from him. “Your father was a patriotic man. He loved his country, without a doubt, but his dreams were always here on Addison Ridge. It pained him to leave it behind. He’d have done anything to get this place off the ground, but the dreams had to wait.”

  Soon after their wedding, she explained, a train took Chance far from his vineyard aspirations to complete his training in the deserts of eastern Oregon, Arizona, and California. In the fall of ’44, he and the “Timberwolves” of the 104th Infantry Division had entered the conflict on European shores. Within a year, they’d fed over six thousand of their members to the voracious belly of the war, and they were but one of Camp Adair’s four divisions.

  After the armistice, First Lieutenant Chance Addison was transferred to CIC (Counterintelligence Corps) on special assignment at Kransberg Castle. Near Frankfurt, Germany. His letter writing became more sporadic. He claimed his work was top-secret, that there was little he could divulge. In late ’45, having dutifully completed his task, Chance caught a cargo plane back to American soil.

  Alive, yes. The same person, no.

  Despite his emotional reticence, the homecoming resulted in Virginia’s pregnancy, but after nine months of numerous difficulties, the son she’d nurtured in her womb died during delivery. Umbilical cord around his neck, the army doctor told her, and the tiny body was rushed out of her sight.

  She became hysterical. A male nurse gave her an injection that provided only temporary relief. When she awoke, she was alone in a heartless room beneath lights and metal mirrors.

  Not even for a moment had she been allowed to hold her son.

  “You never told me about this! Why?” Cross-legged in the sitting room, Marsh was overwhelmed. “I’m a teenager now, old enough to know this stuff. You mean I would’ve had a brother? What would his name have been?”

  “He’s gone. Doesn’t much matter now, does it?”

  “Why can’t you tell me? By this time he’d have been in college, I bet.”

  Virginia rose to her knees and fluffed her calico dress. “ ’Course he would’ve. Now shush. I’ll go on if you’ll keep quiet and help set these things back in the box.”

  In 1947, after a period of grieving their firstborn son, Chance and Virginia began cultivating their small vineyard. They buried their memories beneath the tilled and fertilized soil, beneath the hours of labor and sweat poured into their grape arbors: Rieslings and Chardonnays, Gewürztraminers and fruity Müller-Thurgaus.

  Children? There were none. The Addisons kept themselves occupied.

  As the vineyard expanded, its reputation did likewise. Over the next decade, social events became commonplace, luring merchants, investors, Napa Valley winemakers, and county officials, plus Chance’s golfing buddies and Virginia’s bridge-playing friends with their competing bouffant hairdos. Smiles sparkled like artificial diamonds. Periodically, genuine laughter flitted through the Addison manor—though it always departed with the last guest to leave.

  In 1959, coming as a surprise to all, Virginia conceived again.

  Was she ready for this? A child? She and Chance were in their late thirties. How would this affect their lifestyle, schedules, social circles? Would it disrupt Addison Ridge Vineyard’s promising growth?

  Most pressing, would the baby survive?

  Virginia’s guilt from losing the first child weighed even heavier than the new life inside. As her belly expanded, so did her depression; she was convinced her efforts would be for naught, the pounds gained for nothing. Per doctor’s orders, she spent the last trimester on bed rest.

  Then in November, following eighteen hours of labor, Marshall Ray Addison entered the world headfirst. The doctor placed the boy in his mother’s exhausted arms, and she blubbered sweet nothings to him through a grin that wouldn’t quit.

  She had her baby. At last.

  “And regretted every minute of it.”

  “Shush, Marsh, not true, not true at all.” Virginia was sorting a stack of yearbooks. “Could never have kept this place up without you. ’Course, I never expected that we’d be on our own. I expected your doggone father to stick around longer than he did. Wasn’t meant to be, I s’pose.”

  “Wasn’t there something the doctors could’ve done? Some kind of treatment?”

  “Nothing that lasted. Too little too late.”

  Soon after Marsh’s birth, she explained, Chance Addison started to fade. And quickly. For years, Chance had suffered from migraines and bleeding from his ears and eyes. The army physician blamed the symptoms on his war wounds. Fifteen years earlier, in the Rhineland, Chance had scrambled through a trench to snatch up and heave away an enemy grenade, thus saving a fellow soldier’s life, but the resulting explosion had smashed him into the dirt, rendering him unconscious and temporarily deaf. The physician explained that the residual scar tissue in his ears was now tearing and rehealing—or some such nonsense. Though worried sick, Virginia was placated by the medical jargon and by government checks that appeared monthly at the post office.

  But Chance knew better. His guilt demanded an outlet, and as he wasted away beneath the muddled diagnoses, he spilled his secrets onto the pages of a journal.

  Marsh sat up. “What secrets?” He was almost done organizing the box. “Secrets.”

  “Come on, Mom, you’re talking about my father.”

  “Things from the war.” Virginia gazed off through the sitting room window. “Certain things are between a man and wife and no one else. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got t
o say about it.”

  “Where’s his journal? Let me at least read that.”

  “It’d be about useless to you. That journal’s so faded, so scribbled—looks like the tattered remains of an old pirate’s map.”

  Marsh rummaged through the box of memorabilia.

  “It’s not there,” she told him. “It’s not anywhere, as far as you’re concerned. That’s the way your father wanted it. His instructions were specific that you should not read it. Until …”

  “Until what?”

  “Until … Gracious, I can only hope that time never comes.”

  “What’re you talking about? Come on.”

  “A sure waste of your energy, Marsh. Hogwash, most likely. On his deathbed, your father became delusional, spouting more than a few things that defied common sense. No man should have to go through that … that sort of pain. Blood seeping from his eyes, pooling in his ears. I watched him. I …” Virginia’s voice dissipated.

  Marsh was not to be deterred. “If you’re not gonna tell me, why’d you even bring it up? I hate it when you do this to me.”

  “One day, Marsh. One day.”

  “What about this?” He’d located another object as consolation, a yellowed newspaper photo. “This from his funeral?”

  “Where’d you find that?”

  “Stuck in the pages of this yearbook.”

  Marsh scrutinized the picture. Captured from across his father’s flag-draped casket, the photo showed his mom cloaked in black and holding his own infant form in her arms. Virginia’s eyes were distant, despairing, full of a bitterness that made little sense to Marsh. What secrets had etched that look into her face? Only later did he come to recognize that look for what it was: the look of a woman betrayed.

  The same look now shaded his own wife’s face.

  Charged for action, Marsh turned on his study carpet and found Kara seated in his desk chair. Profiled against the computer’s online chessboard, she was a queen trapped upon the battlefield. Her hair was liquid gold, melting down the black leather headrest. Her eyes were leveled into his.

  Another arrow of pain shot clear through to his retina.

  “Kara?” His voice came out in a raspy croak. “I thought you were in Yachats.”

  She said nothing. She was bound and gagged.

  Behind her, on the screen, Steele Knight was waiting.

  11

  Room 223

  This silverware was heavy, unlike the cheap utensils she and Scooter used. Per Kris Van der Bruegge’s instructions, Josee smoothed the lace tablecloth and distributed four place settings for breakfast. Felt good. The routine of family life. Though Kris and John seemed decent enough, she was relieved to know Sergeant Turney would be joining them.

  In uniform? He’ll probably have to loosen a button for that tummy of his.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” John greeted her. “Bet you’re hungry.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “We get going early around here. I have a first-period class to teach out at Linn-Benton Community College.” John handed Josee a platter of butter-drenched waffles, then as she took possession, he reached to tousle her spiked hair in a fatherly manner.

  She backed away. “Excuse me? The hair’s not public property.”

  Kris arrived from the kitchen with pitchers of maple and blueberry syrup and a carafe of fresh orange juice. “Would you look at that scowl. Just like our baby girl, Annalise.”

  “Baby? She’s twenty-four,” John amended. “Senior at Gonzaga. She’s no longer a little girl.”

  “I miss her. Why’d she have to move so far away, I ask?”

  For some stinkin’ breathing room. Josee set down the platter. Big shocker.

  “You’ll have to forgive us, Josee,” Kris said, watching her. “We’ve always been a demonstrative household. We mean no harm. One day you’ll understand when you have kids of your own.”

  “Kids? Nope, not the mothering type.”

  “Neither was I. I blame it on this rascal here.” Kris wagged a finger at John.

  He whispered loud enough for Josee to hear, “All I can say, Krissy, is that I’m keeping an eye on this girl. She’s liable to bite off your hand, and I thought Annalise was bad.” He backpedaled from the room in exaggerated slow motion.

  Josee tried to ignore his antics. Felt a grin slip out.

  “Gotcha,” he said, then continued through the archway for coffee and cream.

  Sergeant Vince Turney tugged up his uniform trousers, sucked in his pale gut, and strained his belt to the last notch. Had he looked this dumpy at age twenty-two? He was only nine years older than the girl he’d helped out yesterday. Josee Walker. She was a tough nut, all right, but she had opened up. Just a little. A crack.

  The thought still warmed him. He was a cop, yessir, but he was also a man. And a sad example of one, according to his full-length mirror.

  He’d always been big boned, learned to live with it; after Milly’s accident, however, the pounds had started creeping up on him. He’d beaten down the old patterns of alcohol abuse—hadn’t bought a Red Dog in years—but the substitute was now taking its toll. For three years sugar had served as his sweetheart. Sugar. And deep-fried foods. And super-sized caffeinated soft drinks. Turney used this sweetheart to hold other relationships at arm’s length. He’d lost one love, but this one would always be around.

  Around? He swung his belly away from the mirror. Gosh, that’s not funny.

  Eight minutes till breakfast at the Van der Bruegges.

  Lowering himself into the police cruiser in his driveway, he wondered why he kept beating himself up over his size. Not that a trimmer physique would help. Three dates. In three years. Three strikeouts. He’d stopped looking for that one, good, God-fearing woman who could handle his weight along with his job’s brutal doses of reality. Most churchwomen were a bit too sheltered. Or too syrupy. Or too old.

  He pushed back his seat, slurped at a forty-four-ounce Dr Pepper in the cup holder. Tasted flat. He’d bought it … when, a day or two ago? He took another sip.

  Turney extended the platter. “Last one’s yours, Josee.”

  “I’m good. You want it, I can tell.”

  “C’mon, it’s calling your name. Mmm, catch a whiff o’ that.”

  “Full already. My tank’s smaller than yours, you know.”

  “A low blow. Ouch.”

  “Nothing personal, Sarge. This country’s freakin’ obsessed with weight and looks, thanks to the whip-cracking fashion gurus. To be in shape? Nothing wrong with that. But this drive for perfection at all costs? It’s twisted.”

  “Not like you hafta worry.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “About the weight, I mean.” Turney drizzled syrup over the remaining waffle. “Here ya go. It’s got your initial on it.”

  Josee watched the blue-tinted J seep into the dough and felt the warmth of this place settling over her as well. Breakfast had been nice. Normal. John and Kris had refused her help with the cleanup duties, insisting that she and the sergeant relax.

  “So what do ya think of ’em?”

  She hitched a shoulder. “John and Kris? They’re not bad.”

  Turney nodded. “From you, I’ll count that as a roar of approval.”

  The Van der Bruegges—okay, so they were too touchy-feely for her taste, but she could survive that as long as she knew it was heartfelt. Josee could even deal with the nature photography on the walls, the sort that displayed character attributes in bold letters with trite slogans underneath. Usually such platitudes pushed her buttons. On more than one occasion she’d heard them spouted from the mouths of self-righteous phonies. She knew the type well—dress the part, talk the part, act the part. One big show. With a crank of the thermostat, she could turn their religious stage makeup into cracked and splotchy messes.

  This couple though? Their beliefs seemed more than skin-deep. Josee’s past had taught her to recognize genuine from bogus, and these people were the real deal.

  It
worried her. Their disarming candor might further pry her open.

  The grandfather clock chimed seven o’clock. In another hour she’d call her mother. Turney had agreed to drop Josee at the hospital to visit Scooter and further promised to return on his lunch break to shuttle Josee to Avery Park for her one o’clock rendezvous.

  Today’s reunion had to work. Kara couldn’t keep stringing her along.

  On the way to the hospital, Josee felt awkward in the cruiser’s front seat; during her teen years, cop cars had represented the enemy. Samaritan Drive swept them between saplings arrayed in autumn splendor and past a rescue chopper on a helipad. The dips in the road amplified the hissing for nicotine in Josee’s temples.

  Good-bye to family life. Back to the real world.

  Sergeant Turney let her off at the hospital’s circular drive. “Josee?”

  She dipped her chin and looked back over her shoulder.

  “You take care. Meet ya back ’round twelve-thirty.”

  She gave a thumbs-up, then, choosing to save her vouchers, hurried in past the gift shop and her craving for a cigarette. Wouldn’t that be some nifty economics: They sell you the cancer sticks, then sell the chemotherapy. Despite the lobby’s placid expanse, she sensed a lingering disquiet. Or maybe it was just another flashback ripped from her childhood scrapbook.

  At the information counter a nurse was fixated on the tilt of her own head and the gloss of her blond hair. Josee hitched the sleeve of her oversize knit sweater and, resting an elbow on the counter, asked for quick confirmation of a room number. She despised the fact that her friend had suffered an entire night hooked to an intravenous drip.

  “Like, what was the name again?”

  “It’s Scooter,” Josee said.

  “That a first name? Nickname? Ah, it doesn’t matter. I remember the one, kid with the long brown hair? Yeah, okay, heeeere we go.” The nurse stretched out the word like chewed gum. “He’s been moved. Room 223 looks like.”

  “Second floor? Okay, got it.”

  Josee hit the elevator button, shifted from foot to foot, then took the stairs instead.