Dark to Mortal Eyes (34 page)

She had tried to convince him.

He had climbed into a tower of stone and mortar. A self-exiled king.

God, for the millionth time, forgive me. I’ve hurt everyone close to me. Is this my punishment, down in this place? My father was right. I shamed him as a deacon. And you, the all-powerful God … you must be so disappointed in us. Waiting to pour out your wrath
.

Ku-whumppp-whump!

Still, Kara thought, there were things her father hadn’t shown her. He hadn’t hiked with her along these dunes to see the stunning Pacific sunsets. He hadn’t stopped at the tide pools to admire the colors of the sea anemone and starfish. God had another side, so clearly visible once she left the harsh contours of man’s creation.

She loved the psalms. She even caught Marsh reading them now and then. The psalmists knew what it was like to question and struggle, yet wake to a new day beneath a fresh coat of dew.

Ku-whumppp-whump!

The psalms spoke of the Lord’s fingertips on the mountaintops and his tears in the rain.

God must spend a lot of time crying—in this state anyway
.

Kara was hungry. Dehydrated. Her last full meal had been Tuesday’s baked salmon and Pinot Gris. That night she had fled in tears to the pillars beneath the portico because she had felt so exasperated with her husband. Now she would give anything to have him here, flaws and all.

No food, little sleep, the stink of her own body. How easily she was brought low.

Survival instincts shoved aside her other musings, and she struggled again at her restraints. With her tongue scraping against parched lips, she worked the rag from her mouth, bit by bit. The cloth ripped at her swollen wound. She tasted fresh blood. She pulled in her chin until the gag that had stretched in the wet air scraped down around her neck.

“Help!” she called out. It was a whisper actually. Her voice was weak.

“Help!”

Ku-whumpp-whump!

“Please, somebody help meeee!”

To her amazement, she got a response, a foreign sound disrupting the auditory patterns of the day. She stopped. Listened. Footsteps. These were heavier than those of the kid who had carried her in. A slow shuffle.

“I’m down here! Down here!”

The trapdoor creaked open, and a middle-aged man hobbled down on stiff legs. Through the gap, Kara could see her husband’s dartboard on the wall
beside a poster from their ’97 wine festival. Here? She had been brought to their beach house? Marsh had excavated this wine cellar but never completed it; she had poked her head in but never stepped down. Still, she felt foolish for not having recognized her location.

“You can stop yelling now, my queen. I already knew where you were.”

What did that mean? Was this man here to rescue her?

He flicked on a light bulb and moved to her side. He rocked on his feet, tapping fingers at his pant leg. He pinched his nose against the stench so that he sounded like a man with nasal congestion. “What sublime timing. To think that you started calling for help even as I arrived.
In cauda venenum
.”

With a dagger from his pocket, he plucked at her loosened gag and sliced it away.

Even as Marsh’s hopes surged, Virginia shifted back to the mundane. She scooped her paper plate into the trash beneath the sink, then removed the lavender cellophane from her new candle. She held a match to the wick. It spit. Caught flame.

“Marsh, at my age, I s’pose it’s only natural to mull one’s shortcomings, but I failed you in so many ways. I showed you how to make a living, how to work hard and apply yourself, yet in the process I gave you no example for marriage.”

“Twenty-two years, Mom. I think Kara and I have done just fine.”

“You’ve made it work, yes. But you’ve had only the persnickety ways of a bitter old woman to draw from. You never saw the intimacy that a wife requires.”

“You’re a woman. You survived without it.”

“Survived.” She nodded. “That’s an apt description.” The candle sputtered. Beyond the window the October night was a sprawling black-and-blue bruise. “Survived much the same as Kara has.”

“What’re you saying?”

“You’re distant from her. Arm’s length. Have you created a space for her—”

“Yes!” He celebrated a minor victory. “I’ve just emptied the parlor for her so she can set up her own place. An outlet.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the gesture—for now I’ll leave aside the question of my heirlooms’ whereabouts—but I’m speaking of an emotional space.” She tilted the candle so that wax beaded over the edge in hardening patterns. “Son, you let your passion spill over her, but then you pull back, and she feels buried beneath your rigid designs. Kara’s one of these doves. Fixed in place. Beautiful and decorative—”

“Okay, Mom, I understand the metaphor.”

“But marriage isn’t always meant to be tidy. Life’s flames shape each relationship differently.” Virginia swiveled the candle, this time allowing hot drops to roll into the sink until a sand-dollar dove floated free from its wax mooring. She caught it in her palm. “If you let yourself go, if you forget trying to preserve the outward image, your love can soften and free her. That’s the sort of space she needs.”

Marsh ran both hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. The concern for his wife’s survival pressed at his throat, tumorous, choking off oxygen. “Mom, I get the gist of it, okay? I see what you’re trying to tell me. Do you understand that it’s all pointless without handing over that journal? Kara’s out there, as we speak. I’ve gotta get her back. Whether you think I show it or not, I do love her.”

Virginia’s face softened behind her mother-of-pearl glasses. “Oh, Marsh, I know that you do.” She set the sputtering candle on the table and poured him a glass of water.

“Not that I’m perfect. I know I’ve made my share of mistakes. She’s my wife. Right now, I’d do anything to find her.”

“Love is a powerful weapon.”

“Weapon? Guess I’ve never thought of it in those terms.”

“Son, I’ve kept you from the light of understanding. In my ignorance, I hindered your view, fashioned you into a pragmatic man with goals and agendas. But there’s much that you don’t know. It may sound melodramatic, but hidden things are at work here. Elements that remain dark to our mortal eyes.”

Dark to mortal eyes? If she only knew! How do I make sense of all this?

Marsh felt Kara’s words blurt from his lips. “Please, God, open my eyes.”

Virginia flinched. “Is that a prayer of your own?”

“Something I heard. Sounds crazy, but my eyes
are
opening. On some level.”

“Marsh, use caution.”

“Caution?”

“You may not like what you see.” She changed gears. “Others have tried to find the journal, you know. I’ve reason to suspect that this place has been broken into on more than one occasion. The authorities have discounted my suspicions. I’m sure they have their fair share of fretting old women, but I know beyond a doubt that things’ve been tampered with.”

“You’ve never told me about this.”

“I s’pose not. You have your own concerns. Would you have believed me?”

“Does it still exist?” Marsh pushed. “You’ve hidden it somewhere else, I bet. Your heirlooms, the ones I had put in storage yesterday! Is it in one of them? That’s it, isn’t it, right under my nose all these years?”

“We’ll have to continue this later, Son.”

“Later? I drove all the way here, and you’re not going to tell me?”

“My evening walk on the treadmill. Barbara and I meet at the fitness room and pace each other.”

“Mom! I’m talking about Kara’s life! First, you tell me that you suspected this would happen, then you ignore my requests, now you’re going to leave? I need that journal. I’ll tear this place apart if that’s what it takes! Why be so obtuse when I need a direct answer?” Marsh could feel every nerve jangling along his arms. His wrath was a corrosive fluid eating at his thinking processes. The very idea of what might be done to his wife pumped him full of terror and rage.

“Your pent-up anger,” Virginia replied, “will be nothing but a detriment. This is why I can’t entrust you with it, Marsh. You’re heading into a battle against an evil that you know nothing of. It will find that rage in you and use it against you. Only light can overcome darkness. Before rushing into conflict, you must first show selfless love, godly love. That’ll be your best protection.”

“Love?” Marsh snorted. “I’ve got my own scars to show from that.”

“As I’ve said, it’s also your best weapon. You can put it to use or fall back on your own sword while screaming vain threats at your enemies. I suggest the former.”

“I do better with anger. I’ll tear off the arms of whoever’s responsible for this!”

“Your anger can never make things right in God’s sight.”

“I swear, if they hurt her, I could kill someone. Let God sort ’em out.”

“Son, have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Every word. Except for the location of Chance’s journal.”

That sent her scuttling down the hall. Marsh wanted to slam a hand on the table, to demand her assistance in finding the journal; he wanted to blame her for not telling him more of his father’s past; he wanted to storm off before things went deeper. But he had to know the full story now. Nothing less than the truth. Her words echoed in his head:
Hidden things are at work here. Elements that remain dark to our mortal eyes
.

Marsh had both feet on the coffee table and ignored his mother’s look as she returned from her bedroom in a powder blue sweat suit. He faced the antiquated RCA television that took up half a wall. Thirty seconds had passed since he’d turned on the power, and the screen still showed but a wink of life at its center.

“Why do you even hang on to this old monstrosity? Been around forever.”

Virginia deflected the question with one of her own. “Do you still wonder if she’s your daughter?” She held up a replica of Josee’s photo. “Kara faxed it to me last week, the first time I’ve seen my granddaughter all grown up.”

“I’ve seen it too. Don’t need to look again.”

“She’s yours, Marsh. Have no doubt about it. You’ve made honorable decisions, and I respect you for that. I believe Josee’s return is a reward for those choices.”

“One photograph. Not what I’d call hard evidence. And what about you? What if someone told you that she was your child? Wouldn’t you want some proof?”

Virginia stood motionless at the hall closet door. “I did lose a child.”

“Mom, I’m not trying to stir that up again. Just trying to explain.” Marsh spread his arms over the couch. “I saw Josee today, ran into her at the police
station. Sure, when I saw her, I wanted to believe it. To have lived all these years without a daughter of my own? To imagine all I might’ve missed out on? It’s hard to rewrite the past.”

“Then you need to ask yourself”—Virginia started tying on her New Balance jogging shoes—”whether you are prepared for a revision.”

“This is me you’re talking to. Be prepared—it was my father’s motto.”

“Be back shortly. Stay as long as you like. Lock the door if you leave.”

“Can’t wait for long, Mother.” The television was barely alive, and the idea of sitting idle was enough to drive him mad. “That journal’s the reason I drove all the way over here. I’m trying to be patient, but without it I’m lost. That’s my one bargaining chip.”

“No promises on my end, I’m afraid. If you do stay, sure could use your help with a couple of items needing repair. If you have time. You saw the honey-do list?”

“On the fridge.”

“Not going to think any less of you, but it’d sure be a blessing to me.”

Marsh sighed. “What stuff are we talking about?”

“The television’s the worst off. If you could fiddle with it, try to adjust it, that’d be wonderful.”

He watched her depart. His first thought was to ransack the place, tear apart every room, look behind every picture. What if he sped back to Corvallis? Could he access the stored heirlooms? Would a night watchman let him in? Where, where,
where?
Why couldn’t Chance Addison’s ghost whisper a clue in his ear? Where!