by Don McQuinn
His face felt dead, washed in cold sweat.
He turned onto the Interstate practically by instinct. The broad concrete surface took on a sheen that made him think of water. The shoulder was barely wide enough for him to pull over and stop. He yelled, tore free of the wheel, smashed his fists back down on it in fury and frustration.
And it was over. Ordinary concrete reached out ahead of him. Aching hands and tingling forearms were all he had left to assure him the moment ever took place.
Crow eased back into the slow lane.
I beat you. Again.
Checking the rearview mirrors, he was relieved that no one was close enough to notice the action. Major pawed at his shoulder.
It took two tries for Crow to speak past the dryness in his mouth. "It's okay. A cheap thrill, that's all." He flicked a sideways grin at the dog. Major met his gaze, solemn. "Okay, so it was maybe a bit more than that. You saw; I killed it. We've still got the high ground."
Major accepted a rough tousle without any sign of relaxing. Because the traffic was so light and his pace so slow, Crow continued to stroke the dog as they went on.
Crow knew what brought on a second attack so close to the first. It had happened before. He'd let down his guard, let himself get involved. It was how he found Major. If the man who owned the puppy who was now Major hadn't threatened to sic Major's sire on him, everything would have ended peacefully.
Well, maybe not. Probably not. A man who set dogs at each other, killed the losers, killed any that grew too old to fight, who let honest, loyal animals die in a pit because it was good training for the winner - a man like that was bound to get called out sooner or later.
Sometimes Crow worried he might have finished killing the man if others hadn't interfered.
No one to blame but himself, Crow acknowledged. He'd tried to avoid the man. He regretted he hadn't tried to hide his contempt. Everything about the dogfighter recalled the bad feeling that came of seeing good men die - friend and enemy alike. And there was this worthless piece of meat living, making threats. No matter what anyone said, it had nothing to do with the great bugaboo, stress disorder. It was simply justice for the unwarranted fate of all those other men. And the dogs.
Crow remembered the man reaching for the chain release. The redness came in a bright, demanding flash. That once Crow embraced it.
A very good lawyer kept him out of jail. He was sure a prosecuting attorney and a judge who owned dogs hadn't hurt.
He was proud he held everything together after they arrested him. All that lawyer-speak, the hassle to come up with bail money, telling everyone what happened over and over, making sure they didn't take away the rescued pup he'd already named Major - it was rough.
The dreams were a furnace that seared his mind night and day while it was all going on. As the philosopher promised, he grew stronger. Once on the road, he luxuriated in the knowledge that he hadn't lost control for one second - not in the squad car, the emergency room, the jail, the courtroom - never. Not even when the shrink said he had to ask for help because no one should handle PTSD alone.
Like Crow couldn't take care of himself. A man has a few troubles and the talking doctors are right there with a name for it and nothing better to do than poke around in your mind until they "cure" you. So he got through it. And in the end he was really sure of himself for the first time since he'd sobered up.
Now his mind shifted focus to a month before the dogfighter. A freezing, rain-drenched pre-dawn. Standing on a bridge. Way down - the Mississippi. A half-moon, crisp as ice, picked at the black, ready, water. Clean for almost a full year, he still couldn't stop the dreams. He'd stopped writing to Patricia three times a week. Sometimes he missed a week.
There was malice in the silent current. Crow inhaled deeply, mouth-breathing, and tasted escape. And yet he sensed a freedom that meant being nothing. It mocked honest death. The idea pushed him, stumbling, away from the railing. A tide of anger forced out the despair trying to claim him.
Reaching out - getting involved - that's what brought you to bridges and darkness.
Lila said she wanted a listener, someone who’d listen and leave. He played fair. She just played for sympathy. She deserved sympathy, of course. He had to be fair about it. But she was too bright not to know that everything she’d said and done made him remember.
How could she lure him back to that pain, remind him how we destroy those who love us?
That's what she and all the others in Lupine want. They want to embrace you. Smother you.
I know you, Lupine. You know the bare bones of my past and you think you know me, but it's me who knows you.
Those people infect every listener with the weight of their sorrow or disappointment. They tell themselves sharing diminishes the hurt. They water the soup so everybody gets a full bowl. Everybody starves together. They pretend to listen to you so you’ll pretend to listen to them.
The final nail is the Marthas. Loved by all because they see to it there’s no privacy; no hidden mourning, no secret joy. Nothing but fake togetherness.
A proud person keeps pain solitary. Deals with it.
A man whose rage and sorrow make him afraid of himself must always be moving. That’s not running away. It’s continuing to fight in the only way that’s left.
Major sat up and yawned. Crow suddenly realized they were into the farthest reaches of Seattle's eastern suburbs. The transition from forested mountains to built-up area was particularly quick. The lowlands drowned in construction. Streets laced the gentler slopes, homes clinging to them like beads on string. Where the mountains were too steep to bulldoze into domesticity, forest glowered down on its tormentors.
West-bound traffic started building at the first on-ramp. Crow checked his watch, determined to avoid the city streets when they were most crowded. There was no need to catch a specific ferry across the Sound to Bremerton. He had his cds in the pickup and plenty of books in the Airstream.
A little over an hour later he was parked on the ferry terminal dock. Beside him, a bored Major snoozed. A Rascal Flatts cd competed with the urban thunder of cars on the nearby double-deck viaduct and the street fronting the terminal. Gary LeVox sang of love and happiness. The harmonies of Joe Don Rooney and Jay DeMarcus amplified emotion and sound.
Like a fingernail picking at slate, a lone seagull screeched complaint from atop a piling.
Crow wondered what problem a bird might have that would make it so irritable. The day had turned perfect, ferries sharp white and green against a cloudless sky. Far to the west the Olympics flaunted snow shawls. There was enough haze off the blue-gray Sound to provide a touch of mystery.
Ahead of them, the first cars rolled toward the loading ramp. Hastily, Crow joined the procession. As soon as he was parked, Crow locked Major in the cab and walked aft. The powerful engines drummed. Crow leaned against the thrust of the screws sending a boiling turmoil to the surface. When he finally looked back shoreward, a faint movement near the outside tables of a waterfront restaurant caught his eye. He barely made out the standing woman. Her features were a pale blur, but her hair was long and dark. Her right arm was raised high. She waved, an arc as graceful as the wake. She wore a red sweater that laughed back at the sun.
Chapter 11
Van nodded in Crow's direction as he maneuvered to leave and said, "There's something seriously wrong with him. I'm going to get rid of Edward, too. You coming?" He was already leaving.
Lila said, "I'll just watch till he's gone." She stretched her arm high and waved.
She wondered if Crow looked back. Ever.
If he does, what does he think about? Is he wishing he could stay here?
Then he was away. A distant man, she thought, always looking for more distance.
As she lowered her arm, she had the strangest feeling that someone was calling her name. The tone was apologetic. As she tried to make sense of it, lightheadedness forced her into eerie detachment.
What happened next was so quick,
so total, there was no time to be frightened.
Someone was beside her.
Her heart lost and regained its rhythm.
She didn't look, absolutely certain the presence was as real as anything is real.
Another woman. A woman of sorrows. Yet Lila sensed more than that. There was a force the other women strained to hold at bay. The twinned energies created a conflicted aura that coiled itself around Lila.
Lila took a deep breath, formed a mental question.
Who are you?
The sorrow parted enough to let Lila understand the woman carried both hope and pain. Lila thought of those who yearn for heaven even as they flee imminent death. Part of her screamed to end this. She ignored it.
Whoever you are, I want to help. You understand I'm afraid? But I'll help if I can.
Perhaps because of that step into the unknown, Lila was suddenly hypersensitive to everything around her. The smell of the departed pickup's exhaust was muddy and thick, shouldering aside fall's clean briskness. Morning sunshine was pressure against her skin. Dandelions gleamed a yellow as precious as gold coins.
Mingled with that intensified awareness of the reality around her, Lila smelled flowers. Nothing that grew in these mountains. A sweet, almost cloying scent. Gardenia. It distracted her.
The other woman despaired when their link faltered. Lila felt the stranger's relief join with her own when she pulled herself away from marveling at the experience and determined to follow it to its end. The renewed contact was firm, harmonious. In a moment so thrilling Lila had no time to even think, she heard the other's emotions as if they were spoken words.
Loss. Regret.
In the next instant, ongoing sadness, yet rich with encouragement.
The world of light and dark can break us, but only if we let it. Within each of us there is that which will not break. We have the gift to create a thing that refuses any bounds. Even life. Even time. The gift is love and we can only be broken when we forget that love does not happen between two people, but is created by them. When we fail to create it, to nurture it, all our brightness is made dark. Then we are broken.
As the voice faded, so did the connection. Lila's hands rose, palms out, pleading silently for the stranger to stay, to explain.
The other voice consoled. I must go. I will come this once. I point only a direction, not a path.
Lila heard her final question within herself as a shout. Why me? Why now? Is this about Crow? I don't love him. He's gone and he loves no one. Are you telling me I should love Van? Who are you?
She forced her mind into the bleakest silence she'd ever known and was repelled.
A man's voice broke the moment. Lila flinched.
Van patted her shoulder, spoke. She had no idea what he said.
She remembered reading that dreams we supposed lasted all night were scientifically proven to last seconds.
But this was not a dream.
Words practically exploded out of her. "Van. I have to tell you. The strangest..."
"Just a sec. I came back to tell you Edward wants to talk a minute and then I'll get rid of him. It'll only take a second. Hold on to what you were saying."
Van patted her shoulder again, adding a confirming quick squeeze. His smile as he turned away was meant to be conspiratorial. Lila knew that. What she saw, however, was condescension and a hint of proprietary assumption. Her resentment flared. Then she remembered the sorrow of that other woman. Her contact had been a desperate warning. The stranger must have seen Lisa's life paralleling her own misfortune.
Alone. I'm alone, too. It's not the way I want to be. Not forever.
That only works for Crow. Because he's a fool.
Van was sitting in his car on the passenger's side, fiddling with the glove compartment. Edward was leaning down to talk to him. Van sent another quick smile to Lila. She smiled back.
He's smiling for me, with me. He cares.
The lost woman had someone who cared.
Why do I know that?
Why come to me? Am I the only woman looking at a lonely end to my life?
Lila told herself to stop trying to explain or understand. The point was to be thankful for the intercession and learn from it.
Edward was on his way to his Escalade. Lila hurried past, getting back to the building to start work again. From behind her Van called, "Why don't you take a break?"
That question told Lila she'd never share this last experience with Van. His world was as solid as his buildings. He'd laugh at her, tell her it proved she was working too hard.
Edward was starting his engine. She gestured that way. "I already took a break when he showed up. Then another one when Crow showed up. A third when you got here. One more break and the whole day's shot."
"Come on. You work too hard. Tell you what - for a cup of coffee I'll help you with the sanding."
"How'd you know I was sanding?"
He was in front of her then. He drew a finger across her cheekbone and held it up for inspection. "Revlon doesn't make this stuff. This is strictly Black & Decker sanding tool dust. Fine stuff, too. I'm guessing finishing work on cabinets."
She flapped at her clothes as he talked. Puffs of sawdust clouded around her.
This is surreal. That woman was part of me, making me part of her. We were together, outside any world I know. Now I'm having a perfectly every-day conversation. How can that be?
She put on a smile, a plastic normalcy. "You think you're so smart. I was working at the check-out desk, not the cabinets." She swabbed at her face with a handkerchief. "Did that get most of it?"
"Who cares? You have beautiful eyes."
"Oh, stop it. You'll have to settle for supermarket coffee. Sweet talk won't change that."
He looked disappointed. "I was hoping for a double espresso. But if I can keep looking into those eyes, I don't care if it's mud."
"Are you saying I make bad coffee?"
"I'm saying I want to spend time with you."
"Okay. But you've got to stop blowing smoke in my ear."
"Pretty ears." The departing Edward honked. Van waved. They shouted promises to get together for golf. Lila headed inside. She filled two mugs at the checkout desk. He took his and rubbed his free hand over the wood surface. "Good job. You looking for work? I can always use a good hand."
She laughed. "Look around, dude. You think I need more work?"
He took her at her word, walking around the shop, mug in hand. Cringing inwardly, she watched him. He didn't frown. That was hopeful, at least.
She was intrigued by how much his physical behavior revealed about him. Every move was judicious. He examined. Without taking his eyes from the object of his attention, he raised the mug, sipped, lowered it - all the while, the liquid was under control, never slopping, never spilling. When his eyes didn't satisfy his curiosity, he ran his fingers - sometimes his whole hand - over a surface.
She'd never thought about his hands. Now, watching the surprisingly sensitive fingers and the broad expanse of his palm and the way he caressed her workmanship stirred her. It was ridiculously inappropriate to see anything erotic in what he was doing, she told herself. The images forced their way into her consciousness.
What's happening to my mind? How can I be thinking of that now? That woman - the things I felt - how do I deal with that and a real life at the same time?
She turned away, gulped a huge swallow coffee that was far too hot. Blinking rapidly, she got back on a more rational track. When she faced Van she was still thinking about him. Without all the sweaty stuff, she told herself sternly.
The other woman said we create love. Something an oracle would say. It could mean anything Why couldn't she just speak plainly?
There was a lot about Van to like. Unlike Crow, there was no suggestion of adventures and dangers. She'd heard unpleasant stories about Van's divorce. Everyone knew the settlement had been less than generous. It was probable he'd hidden some assets. It was equally probable the departing wife had do
ne her best to collect everything she could. Wealthy people in divorces never seemed to agree on much, but if one expected them to have something in common, greed was a pretty sure bet.
Van had certainly been considerate in her own case. His determination to make her quit her dream was irritating, but his promise of a good offer for the property was sincere; she was sure of it. So was the job offer he dangled as part of the deal. She had no doubts about that little gem of persuasion. He meant partnership. That meant marriage.
She'd never thought seriously of marrying anyone. One long-term relationship was enough to convince her she was better off single. She liked men, enjoyed their company - if they were interesting - and the one relationship had been pleasant. Even when it wasn't pleasant, the worst she could give it was boring. She supposed he'd been an adequate lover. Novels were full of detailed descriptions of people who lit up the neighborhood with flames of passion. The best she ever mustered was a puny glow. That, plus a distaste for the idea of sleeping around, hobbled temptations to experiment.
That physical department was where all her instincts told her Van was a sure thing. The man reeked of maleness. For one tingling moment she thought of those hands. It took a disturbing effort to push it aside.
Maybe that was the very thing that caused her hesitation about Van - the fear of being overwhelmed. The thought of being dominated gave her chills as fierce as any winter. Froze all other notions right out of her, in fact. She understood he had a man's need to feel in charge. That was livable. More than that was out of the question.
Being alone forever was no prize, though..
"...we can create a thing that refuses all bounds..." the woman said.
Creating love can only mean we have to be open to other lives. And that means that if we're closed to those lives, our own never fills.
Crow's so closed it terrifies him if he thinks someone else might open up.
Van completed his circuit of the store back where he started, right in front of her. He took her hand in his and said, "You know I'm the heavy in this drama, don't you?"
