A Hidden Place

Chapter Twelve

Creath Burack nodded, not cordially, at the sullen-faced boy who had come through the door of his office.

He felt content, alone here in this pineboard room. There was the reassuring rumble of the compressors, the metallic smell of the dust, the calendars tacked on the wall like pieces of mosaic. He had spent much of his life here. He sat in the wooden reclining chair with his feet on an upturned waste-basket. Too long in this position and the narrow bands of the back-support bit into his spine like teeth. He was getting older; comfort, like most things, could be taken only in moderation. He stirred dully, sat up, blinking.

“Heard you might have a job free,” the boy said.

Creath Burack squinted.

“You,” he said, “you’re Greg Morrow, aren’t you? Bill Morrow’s kid?” He nodded to himself. He remembered Bill Morrow, a fat granary worker who used to show up at the First Baptist stinking of flax and bathtub liquor, sullen little dark-skinned wife who had died of rheumatic fever three years back— yeah. “Yeah, I seen you before. Aren’t you working over at the mill?”

“Got laid off,” the boy said. “Heard about your job.”

My Christ, the older man thought, but he is not handsome. Round ugly face. And his lip curled like that. Creath felt a swelling resentment of the boy’s youth, plainly misspent. He could think of no good reason not to show this kid the gate. But play him, first, he thought—like a fish on a line. “What job’s that?”

“The one the shit-heel farmboy lost,” Greg said, maybe sensing that he was not welcome here.

“Shit-heel farmboy, huh.” Creath was secretly amused. “You got a strange idea how to beg for a job.”

“Fuck it, I’m not begging,” Greg Morrow said. He turned to the door.^

Some instinct made Creath say, “Hang on a minute.”

Greg hesitated.

“It’s not much of a job,” Creath said. “Pick up trash, stand in on the machine sometimes, deliver sometimes, lift and load always.” He smiled. “It pays shit.”

Greg remained sullen but appeared confused, as if he had been praised and scolded both at once. That was good.

“Try it out,” Creath said. “See if you can get a handle on it.”

“Now?” The kid brightened. “Right now.”

That had been before lunch.

The kid worked straight through, mopping down the loading docks with scalding water and ammonia. Then the work crew filtered back, gazing at Greg with mute curiosity, at the enthusiastic way Creath played foreman to him,- slowly they had caught on, finding him scutwork of their own, lolling against the limp boards of the icehouse while Greg Morrow manhandled the big slabs in and out with an inadequate pair of tongs. The muffled laughter became audible, and at one point Greg looked around with a dark, startled suspicion in his eyes. But everyone had turned away.

After the five o’clock bell he showed up back in Creath’s office, steaming wet and obviously exhausted. Natural enough, Creath thought. He had done the work of two men.

“What time do I come in tomorrow?”

“Sleep late.” Creath grinned at him. “The job’s not available.”

“What the fuck—”

“We’re not hiring. Thanks anyway.”

“You bastard, you owe me a day’s pay!”

“I don’t remember signing anything,” Creath said mildly. “And watch your dirty mouth.”

Greg did a long slow burn but he did, at last, turn to leave. Creath felt an immense, perverse satisfaction. Damn but hadn’t the kid done a job with that mop!

But Greg hesitated and turned back to him now, smiling faintly, and his posture took on that easy insolence again. Creath said, “You too dumb to find the door?”

“Maybe I’m good for something after all.” Creath was instantly suspicious. “I don’t get it.” “You want her back?” “Want who back?” “You know.”

The insinuation was plain.

Creath felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Guilt and doubt gusted over him both at once. By God, he thought, I have put all that behind me.

Demons of lust, he thought. Demons of—of—

“I can find her,” Greg Morrow said, and he was smiling now, a secret and insinuating smile. “I know where she is. I can find her.”

I have put all that behind me.

“I don’t want to know,” Creath said faintly. “I don’t want to know!”

“Maybe you don’t. That’s okay. I’ll get lost.” He opened the door.

“No,” Creath heard himself say. “Wait. …” “Huh?”

“Be in at nine,” Creath said weakly.

Greg Morrow only nodded.

The kid was gone, then, and Creath sat back, swabbing his forehead with his big checked handkerchief. After a moment he took out the bottle of Saskatchewan corn whiskey he kept in the bottom drawer, Volstead Act or no Volstead Act; he drank from the neck of the bottle. Backsliding. But there were worse demons than Demon Drink.

The memory of the tent revival came back blindingly strong—the fine high euphoria that had blossomed like a thorny wildflower behind his eyes. The two ecstasies warred inside him. Ecstasy of sin, ecstasy of faith. He felt his heart falter in his chest.

I know where she is, the boy had said. I can find her.

Was it possible? That she was still here, still in Haute Montagne, hidden somewhere—was that truly possible?

No, Creath thought. It’s a ruse, a trick, a lie. It cannot be. It must not be allowed.

He reached a second time for the bottle.

God forgive me, he thought. I want her back.

His hand was trembling.

Still smarting with humiliation, Greg Morrow nursed the spastic Model T down the south end of The Spur, out past the scabbed towers of the granaries to his daddy’s property, with its sprung doors like torn hip pockets and its elephant’s graveyard of rust-pocked farm machinery.

Inside, his old man was asleep. Dusk gathered complex shadows about the prostrate form on the sofa in the front room. A bottle of hooch, inevitably, lay on the plank floor next to him.

Greg experienced a wave of disgust. He harbored no illusions about the sort of man his father was. Shit-poor, he thought, shit-drunk—and shit-stupid.

He stomped into the kitchen. There were cans of charity food from the churches, a few, in the cupboard. Hoover, one of his father’s five aging and incontinent cats, sat smugly on the wooden counter-top. Greg put out his arm and swiped Hoover down to the peeling linoleum.

Shit-stupid, he thought, that was the sum of it. This town had reduced his old man to a kind of ruin, a living analogue of the junk machines rotting in the front yard, and there was no reason for it but a blind, complacent stupidity.

Greg had not done all that well in school and had left, in any case, when he was old enough to work. But he had discovered a simple truth that raised him above the level of his old man.

Small actions, he thought, have big consequences.

You pull strings. That was how it was done. He had watched the people who ran the town, and that was how they did it. Nothing big, nothing showy. A tug here, a tug there.

And more: Anyone could do it.

Today, for instance. Maybe he had endured that humiliation at the ice plant. But he had also got himself a job.

And all it took, he thought, was a word. The right word.

There were times he wished he could communicate this truth to his father. If they beat on you, he wanted to say, you don’t have to beat back, and you don’t have to take it (though his father had done both, copiously)—you just have to watch. And know. And learn the words to say, the strings to pull.

Revenge was available.

In his head Greg had kept a running tabulation of every humiliation he had suffered, every beating he had endured. His own and his old man’s. The memories were polished with handling.

He thought of Creath Burack. He thought of Travis Fisher and Nancy Wilcox.

Strings, he thought. Lots of strings there.

He opened a can of beans and chased Hoover, yowling, out the back door.

Night had begun to fall.

In the darkness under the railway trestle Travis dreamed.

His dreams were not coherent. Delirious with the cold, he was ravaged by visions. He dreamt of the Pale Woman, and recognized her from a lifetime of dreams: she was pure, virginal, white-robed; her face was his mother’s face except when it was Anna’s or, somehow, Nancy’s. He knew from looking at her that she was untouched, utterly female, desirable— and he was ashamed of his own arousal. He wanted to touch her, defile her. And in the dream she was always moving away from him, retreating, unapproachable; her purity, like some fundamental principle, was preserved.

He woke shivering in the darkness as the night freight passed by above him. Sparks showered down and the roaring made his ears ache dully. When the train was gone there was only the sound of the prairie wind rattling in the high beams of the trestle.

He sat up, frightened, the residue of the dream lingering in the dark air. If he closed his eyes he could see her, the Pale Woman, as clearly as ever. She was, he realized, the woman his mother had not been, the woman his mother had failed to be_; she was the woman he had looked for in Nancy, too, and most particularly in Anna Blaise.

The woman he had not found.

And he thought, shivering in the darkness, stricken: What if there is no such woman? What if she doesn’t exist?