Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  “You sure Lupine fits?”

  “Close enough. Not so sophisticated you and I won’t impress everyone with our Nimrod prowess, though. Bragging about hunting and fishing’s Lupine’s major indoor entertainment.” He paused, then, “You hunt much?”

  “Not at all.” Crow shook his head while he prepared his gear. “Do some target shooting. Rarely.”

  "Same here. No hunting, I mean. Sort of gave up on it long ago.” Together they started up the steep bank. Pastor Richards continued, “I quit one day when the man I was with said we hunt and kill because we love the things we hunt and killing them gives us possession. It happens I was holding a ringneck pheasant in my hands. Colors and patterns like something dropped straight from heaven. What that man said suddenly sounded so unspeakably self-delusional it sickened me. What makes anyone think that killing a thing you love makes it yours?”

  Crow’s words ripped, cruel as a saw. “Some would say that sometimes that's the only love that's left.”

  Pastor Richards stopped, whirled, and looked directly into Crow’s eyes. “That’s a very impressive answer, my friend. I won’t ask where it came from. But it makes me wonder if you might want to think about one of my favorite passages: ‘We are troubled on every side, but not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair.’ I always took that to mean a person soldiers on. Keeps the faith, if you will.”

  “Maybe so,” Crow said. “Faith’s a strange thing. It can betray you.”

  Pastor Richards broke away from the other man's challenging gaze, almost shamed by his sense of escape when Crow's too-penetrating eyes were no longer scraping at his own deepest layers of existence. Not until Crow had taken several steps did Pastor Richards' mind take him back to the beautiful pheasant and how, in death, the fire of life in its eyes emptied.

  Still at the Pastor’s feet, watching him, Major cocked his head, uneasy. Suddenly, realizing his master was leaving, the dog rose and shook as if scattering uncomprehended misgivings. He galloped off, carefree as ever. The Pastor hurried to catch Crow.

  Pastor Richards knew better than to pry further into Crow’s words. Still, an inner need deviled him to press ahead. He tried to diminish his question with a lightly conversational tone. “You’ll have to forgive me, but your position on faith sounds like what I’d hear from an atheist or an agnostic. You don’t strike me as either. Can I ask - Exactly what are you telling me about you and God?”

  Crow stopped, chin tucked in, shoulders hunched, hostile. “Anyone else, Padre, I’d make them understand how rude that is.”

  Hair bristled the length of the Pastor’s arms. He shook his head. "Never mind, son. I didn't think you'd feel so strongly or I'd never have asked. You're right. It was rude."

  Crow continued as if not hearing the words. He said, “This one time I’ll answer you. I don’t talk about God. I do talk to Him. He never answers. That’s ok, too, because He doesn't seem to care much about what I say. People like you like to tell me His eye's on the sparrow. Maybe so. But if it's on me, too, I'd just as soon He looked the other way."

  The walk back to Lupine was slow and heavy. Conversation finally resumed. It never strayed beyond fish stories.

  Chapter 7

  Martha slapped down the menus and an ultimatum. “First things first, boys. Order. Then I’ll listen to as many lies as I have time for.”

  It pleased Pastor Richards to see a slow smile crease Crow’s face. Behind his own forced grin was hidden regret for paining Crow so deeply.

  Crow said, “Keep feeding me the way you have been and I’ll tell you wonderful lies all the time.”

  The Pastor said, “Careful, son. Many a man's thought Martha’s greatest attraction was her food and learned that her charm is what gets them. You heard her call me boy? There's no end to the woman's wiles.”

  “Oh, hush.” Martha’s cheeks went pink. “You’re all boys. You get bigger and older, but never change. Are you going to eat or just sit there smelling like wet dog and sweat and river muck and Lord knows what? Excuse the expression, Pastor.”

  “No excusing needed, dear. It happens the Lord actually does know what. A Reuben sandwich, please, and coffee.”

  “What about your cholesterol?”

  The Pastor patted her hand. “A sandwich won't finish me. You worry too much.”

  Martha turned to Crow for support. “Lives all alone, him and his gunky arteries. Old fool thinks he’s immortal.”

  Crow said, “If you could see him cover ground you might want to rethink 'old.' And no man can know a river the way he does and be a fool. Best bring him his sandwich.”

  She made a face. “Sure, take his side. You going to order today? I’ve got other customers, you know.”

  “Grilled ham and cheese,” Crow said. “Devil take the cholesterol.”

  “He’ll take something,” Martha said, giving them both a look, and swished away.

  Crow raised his chin in her direction. “You two go back a long way.”

  The Pastor’s smile was an image of memory waking. “Watched her kids grow up. One son’s a dermatologist in Chicago, the other an airline pilot, works out of Miami. Wonderful kids, great people. Three grandkids.”

  “Her husband?”

  “He was working on their roof. Fell off. Stupid, pointless accident. She raised the kids alone.”

  Estelle brought the sandwiches, her friendly smile unchanged. The men ate in silence until the Pastor asked, “Where do you call home?”

  “My Airstream’s down at the county campsite.”

  “I meant where you stay when you’re not traveling.”

  “No fixed address. You've been here a long while. What brought you? Your church send you?”

  “God set it up. But we were talking about you. Surely you winter over in the same place?”

  Crow took a bite and chewed a moment. “I keep moving.”

  Pastor Richards forked an errant piece of corned beef around his plate. Once he captured it, he regarded it, ate it, and sighed. “Martha’s right; my arteries dread these sandwiches. Too bad my mouth loves them.”

  Minutes passed before the Pastor ended the silence again. “I was prying again, asking about your home, wasn't I? I didn’t mean to. Decades in a little place like this develops a sort of proprietary attitude about folks. Sometimes I forget to respect privacy.”

  Crow said, “No problem, padre.” They pushed empty plates aside.

  Another man stopped beside the table. Despite abundant agitation, he took the time to nod at Crow before addressing the Pastor. “You have to do something. She’ll kill herself.”

  Pastor Richards’ reaction to the dire warning startled Crow. The older man just waited. It gave Crow time to study the newcomer. He was short, his shaved head blunt as a bullet. He dressed well - pressed trousers, shirt, light sweater - and still managed to look slightly disheveled. Pastor Richards introduced him. “Crow, I’d like you to meet George Weathers; he owns our local hardware store. Crow’s passing through; I was showing him the Fortymile this morning. Caught us a steelhead apiece. Me first, of course. Sort of showed him how. You're in the presence of greatness, so simmer down and show us proper respect. Now, what’s this about?”

  The man danced from foot to foot. “This morning she ordered a Shopsmith, you know, one of those do-everything machines.”

  Pastor Richards spoke to Crow. “I believe George is talking about our mutual friend, Lila Milam. He’s convinced she shouldn’t be trying to rehabilitate the bait shop.”

  “Never said shouldn’t.” George got in his disclaimer before he stuck out a hand to Crow. There was fleeting contact and then George went on, “The place is ready to fall in on her and she knows as much about carpentering as a I know about nuclear science.” The fact that he pronounced it nookalar added weight to his argument. Pastor Richards tried to speak, but George was too fast for him. “I hear she's barely keeping up with the payments to the bank. If she misses many, you know Edwards'll call in the debt. Then what’s she got? Nothi
ng, just hard work down the drain.” He turned to Crow, eyes wide, as if remembering something. He said, “Pleased to meet you. Crow a first name or a last name?”

  “Yes,” Crow told him, then, rising, he added, "When you get around to it, ask my mentor here who caught the biggest fish." Looking back the Pastor, he said, “Lunch is on me. It doesn’t even start to say thanks for one of the best fish I ever saw. If I ever come through Lupine again, dinner’s my treat, as well.” For George, he added, “Glad to have met you, too.”

  Pastor Richards stood. “You don’t need to do that. You sure you want to move on already? You haven’t even tried Lake Connolly.”

  “Places to go. You know how it is.”

  The Pastor smiled. “No, not really.”

  From directly behind Crow, Martha demanded, “You’re not leaving? You just got here.”

  Crow nodded at her frown. Richards said, “Not everyone’s like us. Crow’s a wanderer.”

  She spoke past Crow to the Pastor, “He ought to slow down. Hardly had a chance to talk to him.” Then, to Crow, “Come back and see us, hear? I like folks who appreciate a good meal.”

  “If I ever come back, it’ll be for the food.”

  Pastor Richards feigned indignation. “Not my sparkling conversation? Perfect flies? The fish we caught today?”

  Crow bent toward Martha. “Classic case - the curse of the fishing rod. First it’s minor wickedness - twenty-five miles an hour in a twenty-mile zone. Next, it’s substance abuse. Corned beef. Hot cocoa. Extra large, mind. Double espressos. Then here come the fishing lies. Whoppers, stories he doesn’t even believe himself, like how we caught two lunkers just this morning.” He sniffed loudly. “Oh, you can just smell the brimstone.”

  Martha laughed. “If fishing lies can keep a man out of heaven, then every day is ladies’ day up there.” She paused, then, thoughtfully, “Maybe that’s why it’s heaven.”

  George watched Crow out the door. He said, “I was about to tell him he should vote for me.”

  Pastor Richards said, “The man’s not even a state resident. You’re letting this mayor thing get out in front of you again.”

  “Louise says I’m fixated. Fancy word. She picked it up from tv, I’ll bet. Dr. Phil. Judge Judy. One of them like that.” Shifting mental gears, he jerked a thumb at the door. “Peculiar man. I asked him was Crow a first name or a last name and all he said was yes. Doesn’t make the least bit of sense.”

  Pastor Richards said. “It’s his last name. I liked him. I feel sorry for him, too, and I have no idea why.”

  “’Cause he’s lonely,” Martha said.

  Pastor Richards frowned. “You’re probably right, but I don’t believe he’s lonely the way you and I see it.” Looking to Martha almost apologetically, he went on, “You know, I think he’s afraid.”

  George scoffed. “We talking about the same man? I see a lot of men in my store, and he doesn’t look like he scares much.”

  Pastor Richards said, “I see a lot in my store, too, and I do believe he’s running from something. Maybe himself.”

  “Way too deep for me.” George shrugged, turned to Martha. “People say we're all running from something. Wait’ll you hear what that Lila Milam’s up to.”

  Martha said, “More to the point, I hope you’re up to teaching her how to use that Shopsmith.”

  "Hold on. Teaching her's not..." George goggled. “How’d you know about that?”

  Haughtily, Martha said, “I know stuff. It’s what I do, the same as you run for mayor and sell doorknobs and power tools and all. You just see she doesn’t hurt herself. Better yet, get someone to help her.”

  “I was just telling the Pastor...” George almost got beyond that introduction. Martha’s experience prevailed. Most of George’s stories started with “I was just telling” and his ability to repeat long conversations verbatim, with explanations, was the stuff of local nightmares. Martha peered around him. “I’ll be right there, Estelle,” she said loudly, and shot past George with Olympian dash.

  While George was turned to see what emergency had drawn off half his audience, Pastor Richards escaped with crafty silence that would have made the original serpent proud. When George turned back, his view of the Pastor was a shoe heel flashing out the door. George sulked onto a chair.

  Outside, walking Front Street, Pastor Richards found himself disquieted by his morning. A fine morning, save for that one chilling moment.

  Sometimes that's' the only love that's left.

  Such a despairing thing to say.

  On second thought, another disquieting thing was George Weathers suddenly being cryptic. What on earth would make an incurable optimist like him say we’re all running from something? Was there a certain slyness in the way he said it?

  The Pastor's scalp tingled. He shook his head, then smiled, remembering Major simply shaking himself free of things he couldn’t understand. The Pastor concentrated on Crow. The more he thought about Crow’s words, the more meaning they took on. The anger was inescapable. Sadness, too. Something else, though; discipline. Of course. A man bound to a code.

  But what might my own renewed fear do to my code?

  There's no reason to believe anyone...

  What happened was a different time. Yes, and a different man. I'm exactly who I should always have been.

  He slowed, breathed deeply. He couldn't know when he left Martha’s and turned to his right that Crow had turned left. He was too engrossed in his thoughts to notice Major’s excited barking from Crow’s still-parked pickup when he passed. A shiver as light as one of his better casts brushed the back of his neck. He swatted at it nervously with the sudden understanding that he'd bonded with Crow not because of fly-fishing or Martha’s food or a love of dogs. It wasn’t even their mutual wry assessment of the human condition.

  There was darkness in both of them, pain that longed for solace paired with a mind that rejected every answer to it. He squared his shoulders, marched forward. He said "Old fool," unaware he'd spoken aloud, unaware it resonated like prayer.

  Chapter 8

  At the end of Front Street Crow stopped to look between the park's trees at the river.

  A foul stench triggered gagging. It was nemesis. He was freezingly cold. A shimmering red curtain blinded him, turned the world into one color of a myriad shades. Stumbling away from the roaring, hissing thing in his head, he backed into a wall. Across the street tree and branches danced impossibly.

  An attack of this ferocity was a thing of the past.

  He fought. Surreal images snatched at his mind. The red of fire, the richer red of blood, the shimmering, unnameable red of loss. Explosions. Screams. Crisp, crackling bullets so close they left a burnt smell. He threw it all back. He pushed against the comforting solidity of bricks.

  There was a time when attacks like this came with a voice shouting that every face turned his way was hostile; if he didn't destroy them, they'd destroy him. Part of Crow had listened attentively. He studied the people around him. Sometimes he imagined their deaths.

  As snipers and bomb makers and suicidal maniacs had imagined his.

  He attacked this new enemy inside him the same way he attacked the others.

  The first battle was epic, a man alone on a Kansas prairie so featureless it had nothing but horizons. He stood in a dirt road and flailed, shouted up into a sun-fired blue that he knew the thing in him lived only to destroy him.

  Dust rose in a cloud. No breeze carried it away, so it formed a gold-brown haze that cocooned him. Tears built muddy erosions through it.

  Sometimes, to this day, he still tasted them, salt and earth.

  He had no idea how long the fight lasted. The voice survived, but he'd broken it. Now he always suppressed it. It never stopped coming.

  Yes, I'm afraid of you. I'll beat you anyway.

  Crow's fists loosened. Realizing that he'd relaxed, if only for a moment, jarred him. He pushed against the wall harder. Then he heard the sound of defeat in the voice's cursing
, fading back to whatever hell spawned it.

  I won. Again.

  Keep moving.

  The madness was real, but it wasn't him. It was something else, a disease, a prince of lies. Most of the world couldn't imagine that.

  He'd survived a world of pain with honor. He'd survive the aftermath with pride.

  Himself.

  His pickup was only a couple of blocks away. Inside the cab, on the road, was sanctuary. Separation from all problems but his own.

  I can handle it.

  Nothing hurts if you don't care.

  There was the other force, though. The quiet, insistent one that brought no fear, but crushing dread. Power so strong it dismissed the red dream as light devours darkness. It didn't demand. It pleaded.

  It forgave.

  In return it wanted to claim his soul.

  Crow's lungs burned like furnaces. The pressure of that patient power was almost unbearable.

  You forged me in Your fire. "The best friend you could want. The worst enemy you can imagine." I lived that. I survived only because of Your protection. Why? So I could see You rip away every happiness in my life? You speak of love. You crushed mine. Forgiveness. Do you imagine that I forgive? You made a warrior then set me at war with myself. My self. Leave me to my demon. Every day I grow stronger; one day I'll kill it. And if I fail, don't dare tell me You care; You already destroyed me once.

  He inhaled noisily. He stepped away from the wall. He watched ordinary people going about ordinary business. Ordinary leaves jostled on ordinary branches.

  If I move toward the truck now, I’ll run. People will see a man breaking. They’ll understand nothing, but they’ll say they know how I feel. Liars.

  His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like a ball of yarn. He trembled.

  Straighten up, fool. That's crazy talk. It's worse than paranoid. It's weak.

  He made himself cross the street into the park. Sweat trickled down his back. Under the arching trees, sure no one was watching, he closed his eyes and sagged against a thick trunk.