Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  Some people told little white lies to avoid breaking a heart.

  Others used deceit as an engine of destruction.

  Lila wished her experience of falsehood had stopped with Aunt Lila.

  Retreating from that knowledge, she sought safety in other reminiscence.

  Her aunt and uncle had no children. At one time she’d considered living with them. Her youthful ignorance scorned the notion. Lupine was nowhere. Loopy Lupine.

  Not that living at home was a winner.

  Usually Lila didn’t dwell on home. Tonight, though, lost in river-sound, enveloped in darkness, she felt more able to confront demons.

  With an unconscious grimace she thought of blithering to Crow about her secret technique for banishing trouble. That gem of childishness had been hidden for so long she’d almost forgotten it herself. At least she hadn’t told him how a sympathetic river whispered complicity, how it worked hard to prove a little girl’s belief that imaginings could be so wonderful they created truth.

  Well, why not confide in him? A little bit couldn’t hurt. Anyhow, he was already planning his getaway.

  Maybe Crow was laughing about her right now. Eyes open, she straightened.

  What if he was? So what?

  Think about Aunt Lila. Aunt Lila knew of the secret place, never asked where it was.

  It had taken Lila far too long to realize how close to the edge the couple lived. The small store provided a sparse income. Bake’s outdoor skills made him a popular guide, but he always spoke of those spotty paydays as “sweetening the pot.” Aunt Lila had her own expression for her extra input; she gardened, shopped with a hawk's intensity for produce bargains, and “put things by” all summer. No wild blackberry was safe when she was on the prowl. Her jam jars glistened on the pantry shelves like jewels in a treasure cave. Her apple butter was dark brown temptation, a magical substance that Lila was sure could make angels veer off course. The words they used to describe their efforts to save a few dollars were cliche, but it was what they said, and that made it good.

  Bake liked to say he and his Lila knew how to make do. He claimed if it wasn’t for coffee, sugar, and flour he wouldn’t give a whoop if the stores all closed down - except Bake’s Bait, of course. Aunt Lila would just smile when he said it. She knew it was bravado, and Lila always thought Aunt Lila loved him all the more for it. When things got really hard, Aunt Lila was the one who found a way out. She grew flowers and vegetables and sold them out in front at a roadside stall. She badgered Bake to teach her how to tie fishing flies; in short order she was one of the best. She did leatherwork and knitted scarves, sweaters, and hats during their near-snowbound winters and sold the products in the summer.

  Bake knitted, too. It was the darkest secret of that old country boy’s life.

  Theirs was the happiest house Lila ever saw. The best part was sharing their fireplace evenings, the couple in their huge old leather chairs, herself on a fat sofa cushion beside one or the other. Sometimes they took turns reading aloud. Behind their voices the wood fire crackled and hissed, the smell soothing as balm. Once, snuggled next to Uncle Bake, Lila watched him reach out to his wife. Neither took their eyes from the page, so a sixth sense must have made Aunt Lila aware because she reached, too. Loving hands linked in knowing communion.

  It was the sort of thing that made going home bleak. Not that her parents were cruel or distant. Not exactly. They were simply preoccupied. They had careers, friends, hobbies. Sometimes Lila and Les were allowed inside that world. Not often. A son and daughter were components, part of what defined the ideal family.

  Childhood was hardly a frozen sea, though. Ceremony was scrupulously observed; Christmas brought wonderful presents, Thanksgiving was a feast (never just a celebration, but a well-staged event), and birthdays were truly memorable productions. But neither parent ever hugged her and said, “That’s just for being Lila.” Aunt Lila did. No one else ever showed up like Uncle Bake with a big dish of freshly made ice cream in the evening and said, “I don’t much want to sit out on the porch glider and eat all this alone. You interested?”

  In her own house, Lila listened to her mother’s constant complaint that her sister had married beneath her, that Uncle Bake was just a hippie. Lila’s brother, Les, agreed.

  Suddenly ashamed, Lila once more closed her eyes against the weight of the night and admitted that she hadn’t thought of Les in weeks, perhaps months. Les, so attractive, so full of life. So needful of more excitement, more fun, more girls, more speed. It was the speed that finished it. Fast car, alcohol, bridge abutment. Lila wondered what it said about her that she could never think of that night without a secret gladness that Les was by himself when it happened.

  At least Les had been so much in love with life he dove into it too deeply. Wasn’t it better that life end with a moment of joy suddenly transformed into an even shorter moment of explosive tragedy, rather than a grinding day-by-day diminishment?

  Maybe. And maybe at the end Les realized he was a fool.

  The thought turned on her, vicious as a scorpion. Les was a fool, yes, but his own fool. Not someone else’s. He destroyed himself. He didn’t wring his hands and watch someone else do it.

  Rising, she headed for her car. She wasn’t like Les. He had dreams. The difference between dreams and goals was that goals had roots in reality.

  She was almost to Front Street when a man suddenly stepped from behind a tree. Alarm choked her. An involuntary hand flew to her throat.

  “It’s me,” Van said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Air flooded Lila’s lungs, helped steady her knees. Her words were brittle. “You should have said something. What were you thinking?”

  His answer was injured. “I didn’t see you until you were right in front of me. You were off the path. That tree blocked my line of sight.” Quickly solicitous, he asked, “Are you okay? What’re you doing here by yourself? Alone, in the dark...” He left the rest unsaid.

  “I’ve only been here a few minutes. I was... just thinking.”

  Van came forward. “You’re headed home now?”

  “Absolutely.” She laughed. “It’s late. The store never lets me sleep in.”

  “Don’t get me started on that.” He moved to offer his arm. She took it in an exaggerated sweep as if playing along with a joke. Inwardly, she was glad for the comfort of the small intimacy. The fright still had her heart thumping like a tractor engine. She hoped he wouldn't feel the throb of it in her arm. Then she wondered if walking with him in the dark had anything to do with the pulse rate refusing to drop to normal.

  Or was she thinking back to the moments with Crow?

  Is life so messy for other women? Any other woman?

  They stepped off together. He said, “I guess you’ve heard the saying, ‘If you’re self-employed you’ve got the meanest boss in town.’”

  “That’s a fact. I keep trying to call in sick, but she never gives me a break.”

  Van was quiet for a moment, then said, “Ah, the workload. Another great cue for me to jump in with our regular argument. We’ve had it so often I’m letting it pass.”

  Laughing again, Lila said, “You had to let me know you weren’t bringing it up, though.”

  He sounded embarrassed. “I did, didn’t I? Pretty dumb.”

  At her car, he leaned against the door when she reached for the handle. He said, “I’ve got tickets to the symphony night after tomorrow. Come with me. We can get an early start, have dinner, make it an evening. We’ll get back late, but the break’ll be good for you. If you sleep in the next morning, that mean boss of yours won’t know until it’s too late.”

  She looked up at him in disbelief. “You? The symphony?”

  He grinned and raised a foot, turning it back and forth. “See? Shoes. Regular city slicker. I even read a book once.”

  “Ouch. Okay, I deserved that. I just never thought...”

  He interrupted. “Never thought someone born to pour cement would do anything
else.”

  “No, no; it’s not like that. I know all about your college degree, how you expanded your father’s business - all that. It’s just the symphony thing. It caught me off balance.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t suggest the ballet. You’d probably have gone into shock.”

  Enjoying the game now, Lila told him, “I’d expect to see you dancing in the ballet as quickly as I’d expect to see you watching it. You actually go?”

  “Not really my thing.” Then, quickly, “I do try to schedule in the symphony often, though. It’s world class, you know? Come with me. We’ll have fun.”

  The temptation was huge. It had been over a year since she’d been to the city and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a symphony. Now that she thought of it, about the only live music in her life was the Fourth of July parade. Of course, there was that night at the Silver Dollar. By accident she'd decided to eat there the night they had a country band and dancing. After waving off the third lame pickup line she threw her money on the table and stormed out, growling about Lupine’s no-class newcomers. That only made her feel like a relic which, of course, fueled more anger. All in all, not fun.

  Van put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Still, it’s weight and the sense of his strength quickened her breath. He said, “Why think about it so hard? Let’s just do it.”

  The voice calling from up the block separated them like guilty schoolchildren. “Van? Ms. Milam?”

  Van groaned, then, “Yeah, it’s us, Edward.” To Lila, he half-whispered, “The man’s timing is disgusting.”

  Lila whispered back. “Give him full credit. Lots about him is disgusting.” .

  In the half-light between Front Street’s widely-spaced lamp posts, the approaching Edward Lawton still looked like a banker. In a town where informal dress was the norm, he wore a flaring open overcoat over a suit. He sported a British motoring cap. Lila was sure his necktie cost more than her entire ensemble, including underwear and shoes. She gritted her teeth. “Good evening, Mr. Lawton. How are you tonight?”

  “Edward, please.” He corrected her as he came around the front of the car to join them on the driver’s side. A smile bared small teeth. Lila thought of a sleek fox. His handshake was firm, warm. Lila remembered reading a Hollywood adage that once you learn to fake sincerity, the rest is easy.

  She wanted out. “I hate to sound anti-social, but it’s late and tomorrow’s another work day. I was just leaving.”

  Van’s look was hurt. He told Edward, “Lila was doing some river-gazing when I came along.”

  She said, “And it’s time I got home.”

  Edward shook his head and looked paternal. telling her, “I hope you know how much I admire everything you’re doing, despite our situation. You never get discouraged. That’s character.”

  “Well, thanks.” Lila made it as sugary as she could. “Does that mean you’re rethinking my loan application?”

  Edward chided gently. “You know I’d never talk about your business in front of another party.” He nodded at Van.

  Van said, “I’ll talk about it. There ought to be something you can do.”

  “I wish there were. If it was up to me...” He gestured futility. “My hands are tied. The board... The times... The business is full of obstacles.”

  Lila tried not to growl. “It’s full of something,”

  Edward stiffened. His gaze twitched toward Van. When Van kept his silence, Edward looked back to Lila. He said, “I wish you had some idea of the pressures on me. In the larger scheme of things, your own case is quite minor, frankly. Just so you know, there are those connected to my bank who’ve severely criticized my judgment on the original loan. You look at your dream and it blinds you to everything else.” Again, his thin smile bared those fox teeth. Lila pictured a chicken feather stuck there.

  She said, “Your bank's the one that's blind. Don't all businesses start with borrowed money? You can't make money if I can't.”

  Edward repeated his weary gesture of helplessness. “Ms. Milam, it’s not as if... If I could...” He shrugged to a stop.

  It was all Lila needed to push her over the edge. She said, “You can’t even finish a sentence. Why did I ever expect you to actually do something?”

  Oozing dignity, Edward told Van. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.” He accented the “you,” and included Lila, but with a glare. She returned it. He strode off.

  Van said, “Cool. That should wrap up any chance you had.”

  Defiantly, Lila said, “I don’t care. I begged him for help. He said I should sell. He said you’d make me a good offer.”

  “I never talked to him about it. He knows I’d treat the property right. You do, too.”

  “I don’t want to sell. Can’t anyone understand that?” She opened her car door.

  “No, I don’t understand, but I still did everything you asked. I hated going behind Edward’s back to try to get him to do something that could get him in serious trouble. What I do understand is that you’re being unreasonable.”

  The heat of her anger turned to ice. She said, “Forgive me,” and slipped onto the car seat, slamming the door.

  Through the glass, Van went on. “He’s right about dreams, Lila; they blind you. This thing’s too much. Let me help you before you get yourself in trouble.”

  For a long moment, she held his gaze, then, “You don’t get it, do you? Look, I like you, I really do. I appreciate all you’ve done. Just don’t think you know me. You think running up a bunch of debt is what I’d call trouble? It’s not even significant.” She started the car, pulling away from the curb so quickly Van leaped back.

  Speeding around the corner, she lowered the window, relishing the frigid slash of night air. By the time she reached home she was shivering. Her headlights pinned the old building against the darkness, picked out its every haggard flaw. She turned off the engine and slumped against the steering wheel. Softly, the words not much more than accent to the chill fog of her breath, she repeated what she’d said to Van; “...not even significant.” She forced a laugh meant to be scornful. It tasted like acid and sounded worse.

  * * * * *

  Five minutes after Lila left him, Van had walked the few blocks to Edward Lawton’s parked car. He opened the passenger side and slid in. The banker greeted him sourly. “It took you long enough to get rid of her. It gave me time to think. You want that property? Get it on your own. I’m not taking any more crap from that idiot. If she talked the preacher out of a few bucks, let him and God worry about her.”

  At the closing of the door, the overhead light turned off and a conspiratorial darkness claimed both men. Van told Edward, “Calm down, man; we’re cool. You did a great job. Better than you know. She’s a fighter, all right.”

  Edward was startled by admiration tinging Van’s last remark. His physical interest in her was natural; she was quite pretty. Van would never understand that her good manners were just a cosmetic paste over a ridiculously high opinion of herself. Edward prided himself that he’d picked up on her nasty stubborn streak immediately. Still, that obstinacy seemed to be exactly what Van found attractive. It was a relief when his companion continued in a normal manner. “A good private detective could find out. If she got money from Richards, I mean."

  Pulling back, Edward snorted.“So what if she did? His church loans money to every loser that comes along. That bunch of clowns on the board? They do what he tells them. Anyhow, a private peeper? Why? What’s that cost?”

  “I’ll take care of it. I think it's suspicious no one's ever mentioned any loan to her from the church. Something's going on.”

  Edward grinned. “Maybe in more ways than you want to think about. Your face when she walked out of Martha’s with that guy? And when they were sitting in the park? You looked like you could chew nails.”

  The silence that followed was crushing. Edward squirmed. He'd crossed a line, didn't know if he'd be able to get back over it. When Van spoke again, his tone was reasona
ble and the more frightening for it. “I get what I want. Never forget that. Never tell me what I want or how I should do anything.”

  Even as Edward responded, he cursed the idiotic pride that forced sharp-edged, foolish words out of his mouth. “I think you want that woman as much as you want the property. Maybe even more.”

  Surprisingly, to Edward’s immense relief, Van answered as if to himself. “She’d be a good partner. Not in any real business sense, of course. Women protect things. If it’s not trees or ducks or weeds no one ever heard of, it’s employees who don’t pull their weight. I learned a lot from my first wife.” He faced Edward. “Yes, I want Lila as much as I want the property. That broken down shack and her crazy dreams about it are ridiculous. That nut-job preacher's a bad influence. What I’m doing is for her own good.”

  “You'll never prove Andy Richards fiddled his own books. And she's smart about her money - give her that. Keeps up the interest payments on the loan we gave her when she first came to us. She keeps a few hundred in checking with us. That trust will keep her alive, but not much more than that.”

  Val opened the door and quickly slammed it shut. He raised his voice so Edward could hear inside.“Divorce taught me plenty about hidden assets." He leaned forward, aggressive. A white grin flickered in the darkness. "We're all naked in today's world. All the secret chinks in our armor are there for anyone who knows how to look. I'll open her life like a book. You made me confront that I want her. Now I'll show you I meant it when I said I get what I want."

  * * * * *

  Across the street, Pastor Richards was leaving his church. Van’s words carried clearly. Crackling menace in the voice made him huddle deeper into the shadows of the covered entry. In seconds, both Van and Edward had driven away.

  It was a long time before the Pastor stirred. When he did, he moved swiftly, searching the sleeping streets like a man pursued. Hunched over, pulled into himself, he finally stopped to turn a fearful face skyward. He muttered in pain. “Why, Lord? You let me believe I was forgiven. You know I've repented, lived in remorse. Lila Milam doesn't deserve to be caught up in what happened in things long dead. No one does. Please, don't confound those who've trusted me. I pray you'll protect my secret. If you can't, let any cost fall only on me.”