Light the Hidden Things

by Don McQuinn

  The Pastor said, "No problem. Get that sleep."

  Lila said, "You go on home, Pastor. I'll help Crow and Major get settled in."

  At the sound of his name, Major sent them a sharp bark from the trailer, making clear his disapproval of being left out of things. It made Lila smile. Crow brightened a bit. He waved goodbye to the Pastor as he told her, "Don't think I'm not onto you. You really want Major here, not me."

  Entering the game, she said, "Curses. I was being so smooth, too."

  They stepped up into the Airstream. Major wiggled welcome, butting Crow's knee forcefully, then pushing against Lila. There wasn't much room to stumble around in the Airstream. Lila tried to catch herself and Crow moved swiftly to help. They ended up with hands on each other's shoulders. Their eyes met. Both stared surprise - and more - at the other.

  Major, oblivious to the havoc he'd already created, leaned into Lila again. The sheer bulk of him against the back of her knees practically took her legs out from under her. She sagged backwards. Crow reacted more quickly than she believed possible. His hands dropped to her waist. Her hands were still on his shoulders, clutching. She felt muscles stretch and tighten under strain. Her weight rocked him. He made a sound deep in his chest, braced. Then she was dangling, her feet in a mad dance seeking balance.

  Smoothly, catlike, he pulled her erect. Momentum swayed her forward. Into mutual embrace.

  Fear - a delighting, exciting fear - surged through her so fast it seemed her blood was burning.

  Everything in Lila told her to step back. Babble apologies. Run for her sanity, if not her life. She had never hated an idea so much.

  What am I doing? What do I do next?

  She felt his grip relax. It was reluctant. Her heart beat so fast it stuttered. His cheek was against hers, the jawline solid, like warm stone. There were bristles, exciting against her skin she knew was flaming red.

  Embarrassment? Yes. More than that?

  I can't. I mustn't.

  They parted awkwardly. Lila was relieved to see he was as flustered as she was. It pleased her. He'd held her a fraction longer than absolutely necessary. He found her attractive; that set off another jolt of the earlier fear. This time she savored it in spite of herself, recognized it as anticipation. She was sure - wanted to be sure - there was more to his reluctance to break the embrace than plain physical attraction.

  The quiet voice of reason reminded her that Crow was a lonely man, but one very likely accustomed to embraces, few of them accidental. Still, she couldn't picture him as what Aunt Lila would've called a butterfly.

  The quiet voice of reason was scratchy and irritating. She turned it off.

  It wasn't reason or logic that had her thinking she might melt any moment. The sensation of his body against hers stayed, as warm and clinging as paint.

  She pushed Major out of the way and stepped back further, saying, "I'm sorry. That was so clumsy."

  So cool. So bogus. You're vibrating inside. You wanted him to hold you. Wanted it to never stop.

  His voice was so tight it practically twanged like a banjo. "The dog... He just gets enthusiastic. Are you sure you're ok?"

  "I'm fine, fine. Just lost my balance. Thanks for holding me. I mean, I was falling. Down. You know." Her hands whipped the air, a puppet's herky-jerky. She wanted to die.

  Nice work, idiot. You had it there for almost a whole second. Get out. Now.

  Crow took her elbow in hand. "Major and I'll walk you to the house. He needs out before we turn in."

  Her smile was thanks. And it saved her from having to speak any more. By the time they reached her front steps she was in better control. From the porch she looked down at him. She said, "I'm glad you and Major came back with us. You've made friends here." Inside, Zasu barked confirmation, making them both smile.

  He said, "We're grateful. I meant what I said about helping. Not just because I owe you, either. I admire the spirit that's making you do it. I guess I'm sort of glad to be part of it."

  She laughed. "Well, I'm sort of glad to have the help. That makes us even."

  He half-saluted and left. Behind him, her entry into the house was the creak of the sagging screen door followed by a splash of light when she hit the switch. Zasu's yaps punctuated all of it.

  When Crow was sure she wasn't watching, he stopped and faced her building again. His hand dropped to where Major's head waited. Crow said, "Look at me, checking to see she's all right. She's lived out here alone for who-knows-how-long, and here I am, acting like some sort of caretaker." He waited until the windows in the back of the building lit up before continuing toward his trailer.

  Major coursed the parking lot and beyond into the fire pit area. Ranging in a large circle, he was no more than sound in the night when he stopped abruptly. Crow stopped, as well. He whistled, a high, carrying note. The answering bark was muted, a huffing noise. Crow hurried toward it. Nearing Major, Crow noted his stiff posture, almost on point like a bird dog. Major held to that as Crow came up beside him. Crow said, "What is it, buddy? We have a prowler?"

  A heavy growl rolled up from Major's chest. He took a step forward. Crow grabbed his collar. "No, you don't. Heel. We go together." Side by side, they advanced.

  Something distant scurried through brush in noisy departure. Major lunged ahead. A sharp "Stop!" from Crow brought him to a twitching halt. Patting the dog's shoulder, Crow praised him, then said, "You're as bad as me, you clown. We don't even belong here and we're snooping around in the dark like we're on patrol. Come on, we're going to bed. You're too beat up to tackle a field mouse."

  Major grinned up at him to show he could take a joke.

  In the trailer, Crow found himself sleepy, but too tense. Turning off all the lights but a small one over the table, he poured a shot of whiskey and sat down. Elbows on the surface, chin in his hands, he stared into the amber liquid. It gleamed back at him. He said, "Don't look your lies at me, creature. You had me by the throat once and I beat you. You're just a beverage. Maybe medicine - expensive aspirin. So do me some good." He drained the glass. Then he rinsed and buffed it sparkling dry before putting it away. Twenty minutes later he was still at the table, frowning out the window at the darkness. His head ached. Getting up, he put his hand on the door to go out, then drew it back. He retreated to a cabinet, took out a box of stationery. Hunched over the table in the faint light, he wrote.

  My darling Patricia,

  It's been a long time since I wrote. I'm sorry. I know I don't have to explain to you. The letters always make me feel better, though. I've told you that a thousand times, too, haven't I? You always said I was crazy. Guess you were right. I always thought crazy about you was crazy enough.

  I'm stalling, aren't I?

  You know what happened tonight. You know I never planned a bit of it. I'm never sure exactly how much you see or how much you know my thoughts. When I was fighting the whiskey and the really bad times I told myself I didn't care what you saw or thought. I'm really sorry about that. You know I've got a problem with God because of all that happened. I still believe He's got His angels and you're one of them. And I remember the time you told me I should find someone else if something happened to you. I only agreed so you'd stop such foolish talk. All the time we were together, that's the one time you really frightened me. I still

  Never mind. Something happened tonight. I guess the only fair way to put it is to say it's been happening for a while. I just wouldn't look it in the eye. She makes me feel the way you did. She makes me feel necessary. And like I could be whole again. It scares me, Patricia, really scares me. Not the way you did when you talked about leaving me alone. It scares me the way I felt when Joe told me you'd been drinking all that time. I hurt you so much and I never knew it until it was way too late. Tonight I looked in Lila's eyes and all I could think of was I wanted to keep holding her and keep looking in her eyes. The way I felt with you. I can't have that. I can't get mixed up with another woman because I'd feel like I was cheating. But there's more to
it than that. The thing is, I can't take a chance on hurting someone the way I hurt you.

  Everybody tells me I shouldn't blame myself for what happened to you. Some even said if I felt I had to take the blame, it was all right because God forgave me. I don't believe it. I don't even care. He let it all happen and now He thinks he can make it right just by telling me I'm forgiven? I don't want His forgiveness. All I want is you back. I can't have that. I know. What I can have is the sense to not damage some other woman. But I like her. She makes me want to think about tomorrow. When I was holding her, I cared if I lived. I haven't felt staying alive was important since the moment the Colonel told me there'd been an accident and I was going home. Right then I wanted to die. I wanted to for quite a while. The only reason I didn't arrange it was because I knew you'd say it was your fault. Even since I got a grip on myself living's just meant another day. I haven't cared much. I do now, Patricia. I do. This lady - Lila - she makes me think beyond right now. Beyond tomorrow. Like you did.

  I'm not saying I love her. I don't know if I could. Maybe it's started and I'm too dumb to know it. Or too scared to admit it. I want to be near her. I'd never have come back here if it wasn't for her. Have to be honest with myself - and especially with you - about that. I'd have found some way to look after old Major. But can I ever be that honest with her? Would I have to tell her how much I loved you, how happy I was? How happy we used to be? Could I even try to explain the red dreams, how sick and frightened they make me? She thinks she knows about the PTSD. She's never lived with it. Do I talk to her about it? You know me. I'd never be able to do that. How would I live with her if I didn't at least try? Maybe if we'd talked more about that sort of thing, you and I

  I'm not going there. That time's gone.

  Listen to me, talking about myself like I'm the only one involved. I never even mentioned she might not love me. I'd sure understand that.

  I don't know what to do. I'm afraid to go forward. I won't go back. Not to the world I tried to kill. That world's come back to me tonight. I want it. I didn't know how much I missed it. I don't want to be just a shadow anymore. But I'm afraid. I'll beat the red dreams. I'll beat this concussion. What I can't beat is the fear that Joe was right about me, about what I am. And that other thing I talked about.

  I always needed you. Never more than now. Help me, please. I want to be me again, the way you always made it happen.

  Your loving,

  Crow

  * * * * *

  The sickle-blade of a quarter moon was dodging between clouds when Crow stepped outside. Fitful light gave movement to bushes and rocks. Crow fought back memories of times and places where that movement wasn't always just imagination. Senses jangled with at the touch of remembered sounds and smells of combat. Carefully, but with the confident progress of a man used to working in the dark, he made his way to the nearest firepit. The folded white letter jutted from his pocket. Major shambled along beside him.

  It took a few minutes for Crow to gather enough wood to build a fire. A capricious wind blew out his first match. As soon as the flames were strong he sat down on the log bench. Major curled up on the ground beside him. The fire grew.

  There had been so many wonderful times. Struggling on a PFC's pay, Patricia waiting tables in Oceanside to save up a few dollars for when the baby came. The crummy little apartment. Good neighbors, though; mostly other young Marine couples. Everyone with the same problems, the same attitude. The same complaints; Patricia: "If I hear Ross ranting about First Sergeant Alexander once more I swear I'll go out and buy a gun."

  The blink of an eye. The baby's a teenager. Now the First Sergeant's name is Crow. Pretty, oh-so-pregnant girl Patricia's grown to be a mature, beautiful woman.

  How could a man lose so much and ever hope to replace it with anything except mourning?

  What kind of man could tell himself that memories were only memories when his soul knew they were so much more?

  If First Sergeant Crow knew anything, he knew loyalty.

  Patricia to the Crow who'd just made Sergeant: "I know the Lieutenant's an idiot, honey. You and the other squad leaders have to square him away, bring him up right. Don't let him make you forget your priorities. Your squad, your platoon, your Corps. You're the best Sergeant he'll ever see. He'll learn that."

  Sergeant Crow as squad leader to Corporal Nuanez, his best fire team leader: "Nuanez, it's not your job to tell me how dumb the Lieutenant is, so don't. You just make sure you do your job. You got that?"

  Most of the time with Patricia meant peace, the plainest sort of comfort. The last days before payday she did marvels with a couple of small pork chops and some veggies. Or her burgers; ground beef - and her hand - and it was a feast. There was never enough money. They walked on the beach, or, like at Quantico, just around the housing area. They read books, making the other listen to good passages aloud. They argued about whether or not the passage deserved such treatment. They watched sitcoms and laughed at the jokes and laughed at each other for laughing so hard.

  No matter where they lived, the minute he came in the door, she was between him and the stress.

  She absorbed it.

  No man should turn his back on a wife like that. Nor on her memory.

  He jerked back to reality as if waking. He had no idea how long he'd drifted, his mind flitting through the remembrances the way the moon shuffled through the clouds. He was surprised to hear the first drops of rain patter in the shrouding trees.

  He took the letter from his pocket and unfolded it as if to read it. The increased wind twisted it so much he had to hold it with both hands. It made little difference; the fire was already down to coals. The light was far too pale for him to make out words. A drop of rain hit the paper with a sharp pop. Then another. The ink made calligraphic lines.

  "I don't know if I should send this," he said. "After us... what we had... what I was thinking when I wrote it... Maybe I shouldn't..." He re-folded the letter and lifted it to his pocket. A gust of wind, heavy enough to make the firs groan, whipped it out of his hand. Moth-like, it fluttered in the wind. He snatched at it and missed. Spread wide open now, it settled on the coals. They glowed through it like candlelight through a paper lantern. He deciphered one word: Please.

  The paper blackened, curled violently.

  It flamed all at once, startlingly bright. He pulled erect, only to slump forward again, mimicking the crumbling ashes.

  * * * * *

  Lila wandered the house, trying to create coherence in a jumbled mind that refused sleep. She was passing a window facing the lake when she thought she saw a red glow. It stopped her abruptly. Fire was acutely dangerous to an isolated place like Bake's. There were no flames, but the uncertain glimmer sent a shiver up her back. Staring hard, she made out the figure sitting on the firepit bench.

  The eruption of light at his feet startled her into a muffled cry of surprise. She saw Crow flinch backward, then seem to sag. Falling rain rushed to obscure her view. She was glad of it. Once, on tv, she'd seen a man straighten and drop back the way Crow did. He was a sniper's target; the aim of rifle and camera coincided in horrible symmetry.

  For the second time in as many days a prayer pushed everything else from her thoughts.

  * * * * *

  Exhaustion such as he hadn't known for a long time racked Crow. He crawled into bed, dreading the sleep he knew he had to have. Weariness always weakened the walls. The red dreams were always waiting to break through.

  Chapter 22

  Crow woke beside a lancing shaft of sunlight coming through a window. Major, on the floor, curled in the center of it. Crow was idly wondering if the dog would move when the beam did when he was jolted to full wakefulness by the realization that he'd had no dreams. He rose carefully, not trusting this strange well-being.

  Back when the whiskey was drowning him waking was a mad blend of hangover and wrestling with lingering horror. It took a near-fatal accident to make him understand alcohol was surrender. Lost, battered,
barely able to move, he spent four days stone sober in high desert country. He waved to the rescuing helicopter with a glittering slab of the whiskey bottle that broke in his backpack when he fell off the trail. Sometimes he wondered if the smashed bottle didn't have more to do with his being alive than the men who came for him.

  Pulling on jeans and shirt, he thought back on that incident. Prior to falling down that mountainside, he was well on his way to throwing away his life. He was glad his recollection of those times was all blurred images. There were souvenirs; a couple of small scars. Other wounds, more noticeable, were products of a hard profession. The difference was that the ones from the drinking days embarrassed him.

  When he finished lacing his boots he patted Major. "You're the only good thing to come out of those times." Thoughtful now, he sketched invisible pictures in the pooled sunlight on the table. "No one'll ever convince me Patricia wasn't there on that mountain. Didn't she hate alcoholism? Wasn't I thinking about her when I went over the side? Didn't I tell myself not even a fool spent an afternoon drinking and then hiked a mountainside trail? I know you won't believe me, but I heard her scolding. Not mean. Worried, like always. She always made sure I controlled that stuff instead of the other way 'round before... before what happened. I believe she kept me from dying in the fall. Then broke the bottle so I'd dry out and have a chance to get squared away." His self-mocking chuckle was deep.

  He went to the sink to wash up, still musing. "You tripping Lila last night - that's a whole different thing. That was just a clumsy mutt stunt." He turned a face full of shaving lather down at Major. "I don't know why I put up with you."

  Major's panting grin could easily have been a sly hint that he knew they were both pretty pleased with the way that turned out.

  As soon as the trailer was policed up, Crow took Major outside. Injured side or no, the dog pranced as soon as he was on the ground and they were on their way. Crow was surprised to see Lila jogging onto the road. She wore a sleek blue and white running suit. A darker blue headband held her hair tight, save for a rhythmically swaying ponytail. Something bright embedded in the blue band winked like morning dew.