Catherine McKenzie - Hidden

“Will you shut that goddamn thing off?”

“Not until you say it.”

“Say what?”

“You know what.”

“Jesus Christ, Tim. Who cares? You won. Enough. Help me up.”

I held out my hand and the light snapped off. But instead of giving me his hand, Tim was on top of me, pinning me to the ground like he had so many times before, when he wanted to beat on me or teach me a lesson.

“Say it,” he said. I could feel his hot, malty breath against my face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Say it,” he repeated, and pressed my arms deeper into the mud.

I could feel the back of me becoming as wet as the front, and I was starting to get pissed off.

“Jesus, fuck, fine. You can’t get there from here.”

“Too bloody right you can’t.” He gave me a final push, then released me and stood up. “You shouldn’t even be trying to.”

I opened my mouth to answer him but stopped when I heard him walk away. I knew it would be fruitless to call after him, that he was content to leave me there and let me find my own way home.

So I lay there like that, watching the moon, trying to make sense of it all.

Just me and the creaking dark.

When we get home from the funeral, the house is already thick with people. It feels like the whole town’s here, though of course that isn’t possible. The whole town did send food; everyone’s hands and mouths are full of something. They seem to have forgotten to send alcohol, though. A vital omission.

I wander through the house, being stopped and hugged every few seconds, like a repeat episode of The Day Jeff Died. I think this show should be canceled. It’s always been a terrible show.

I nod and thank and agree. I’m becoming inured to hearing Jeff’s name in connection with his death. At least, I hope I am.

I have an awkward discussion with Art Davies, all mumbled words and expressions of guilt.

“Maybe Jeff was distracted because he felt so bad about firing me,” he says. “Maybe—”

“No. Don’t put that on yourself, okay?”

Don’t put that thought on me, I want to say. I don’t want to think about whether Jeff’s death was avoidable, who’s to blame. I don’t want to feel the emotions that would come with those kinds of thoughts. I’m already feeling too much, and too little.

“But—” he says.

Art’s wife tugs at his elbow. “This isn’t the time, Art. Come on, let’s go.”

He sighs and mumbles an apology and then they are gone.

The friends whose calls I haven’t been returning surround me, a buzz of protectiveness. But their sorrow is more than I want to feel too, and so I don’t really listen, don’t really say anything, don’t really feel anything.

At some point, Seth tugs at the sleeve of my scratchy dress.

“Yes, honey?”

“Was it…okay what I read?”

I turn to him. He looks small and embarrassed in his jacket and tie.

“Of course it was. It was perfect.”

He stubs his toe at the floor. “It wasn’t…cheating?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like at school. How you have to do your own work?”

“Darling, of course it’s not like that. Think about the minister. He was reading something someone else wrote, right?”

“But that’s his job.”

“I don’t think it’s so different. I’m really proud of you…that you were able to get up and speak. It was…more than I could do.”

“Don’t feel bad, Mom. Dad would understand.”

I pull him against me, hoping he’s right but still feeling disappointed in myself. His bones feel small, not quite sturdy enough to shoulder this present life.

“I hope so.”

I release him. He rubs his cheek where it connected with my dress.

“Where’d you find that poem?” I ask. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“Dad had it.”

“He did? Where?”

“In this book I found…please don’t be mad.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“ ’Cuz I found it in his stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“His travel bag. In his office.”

“Why were you looking in there?”

“It’s stupid.”

The house is loud and full, but we’re in a pocket of quiet, Seth and I.

“Tell me.”

“I feel like I’m starting to forget things, about, you know, him, and I thought if I held some of his things…”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Are you forgetting?” he asks.

“I’m sure I am, but I have so much more to remember, so I haven’t noticed yet, you see? We knew each other for a long time.”

“My whole life.”

“And then some. Are you hungry? You should eat.”

“Do you think I could go upstairs instead? There are too many people down here.”

“Of course.”

I realize there’s no one Seth’s age in the house. Only a few of his friends were at the church. Did they not want to come to the funeral, or did their parents think they weren’t old enough to deal with what’s been thrust upon my son?

“Why don’t you take off those clothes and put on something more comfortable? I’ll come up soon and we can be quiet together.”

He agrees and walks toward the stairs, a hitch in his step.

I stand there for a moment, uncertain of where I can stand to go next. I move eventually in the general direction of the kitchen, only to be stopped by Connie, my piano teacher.

She stands rigidly in front of me, her arms crossed. She’s wearing a severe black jacket and skirt.

“Hi, Connie. Thanks for coming.”

She nods curtly. “Lessons start again next week.”

“What?”

“Next week.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. I mean—”

“You will come to the conservatory. We will see if you can. It is time to see.”

She talks like a tennis ball machine, firing words at precise intervals.

“I’ll try.”

“I will expect you at noon.”

“I don’t—”

“It is your choice. Do as you wish.” She places a large, mannish hand on my shoulder. “You are strong, Claire. Come to the conservatory so you can remember.”

She walks around me, headed to the front door. Tim’s standing there, shrugging off his coat. I catch his gaze. He holds it for a moment, then looks away. I watch as he stares into the sea of people in the living room. He raises his hand in greeting to someone and disappears from view.

Several more people circle me, hug me, tell me how sorry they are. When I manage to escape, I go to the kitchen in search of a glass of water. I run the tap till the water is cold and start to fill a glass. I look out the window, wondering if I’ll ever be able to do so without thinking of the police car pulling up to divide my life in two.

Today it all looks innocent, despite the unusual number of cars parked on the street. There’s a woman who looks vaguely familiar standing at the edge of the walkway. She raises a cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply, letting out the smoke in a long, slow stream.

A cigarette. Yes, that’s what I need. I let the glass I’m holding slip from my hand and hurry to the hall closet and my coat. In a moment I’m out the door.

“Please tell me you have another one of those,” I say.

The woman looks at me, startled. She’s been crying.

“Of course. Hold on.” She clamps her half-smoked cigarette between her teeth and peers inside her purse. She pulls out a red-and-white package and hands it to me. “Here you go.”

I take the crinkly package and tap out a cigarette. The act of putting it in my mouth, catching a whiff of the tobacco, makes me want a drink, but I never did manage to find one inside.

The woman holds a lighter at the end and flicks it on. I inhale quickly, twice, to make sure the cigarette is lit. The warm smoke sears my lungs. I can tell the exact moment the nicotine hits my bloodstream. Eight seconds, the time a rodeo cowboy has to stay on his bucking bronco.

“These are getting hard to find,” the woman says. Her voice is vaguely familiar too.

“Cigarettes?”

“No, lighters.” She flashes the green plastic cylinder at me, then puts it in her coat pocket. “Used to be, everyone always had a lighter, even if they didn’t smoke. I had to go to three stores to find this one.”

I take another haul, enjoying the illicit pleasure.

“We probably should be hiding behind the shrubbery. If my parents see me with this, they’ll throw a fit.”

A thin smile. “I know what you mean. My husband’s a doctor and if he only knew…” She takes a last drag, throws the cigarette to the ground, and grinds it out with a black ballet flat. “God, these things really are terrible. I thought it would help, but it doesn’t. Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“It’s all right.”

“The service was beautiful, by the way. I guess I should’ve started with that. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. It’s a…terrible thing.”

“Thank you…you look familiar to me, but…do we know each other?”

“Oh! I’m the company representative. Patricia Underhill, from the other Springfield? You can call me Tish.”

Tish. Tish.

“We met once,” she continues in a breathless rush. “You probably don’t remember? At that company retreat in Mexico, a couple of years back? We only spoke for a few moments…”

Mexico. Right. The first trip Jeff and I took alone together in forever. Things were mostly normal then. Things felt good. At dinner, like today, I’d slipped outside for a cigarette and found a woman about my age sitting on the edge of a retaining wall under the bright bougainvillea trees, crying.