Read Online Light the Hidden Things by Don McQuinn - Free Book Online Page B

beaten it again. He'd been robbed of a little rest; he'd handle that. He always did. He was winning.
    A look at his watch told him he should be alert for the Pastor's arrival.
    Morning had actually started for Crow shortly after three. Busying himself organizing fishing equipment that was already perfect kept him from nodding off.
    Oddly, when he was working on the tackle was the only time he caught himself remembering his old smoking habit. The near-mystic routine of the addiction had held him as tightly as the nicotine. It started with removing the crinkling cellophane of the fresh pack, then rapping the bottom on a hard surface to properly tamp the tobacco in those white tubes. Next came tearing a neat square opening in the top (he’d been a true-blue old-fashioned Camels man, soft pack). Only then did a smoker strike the pack against a finger. The exact angle was important; the impact must drive a single cigarette (at most, two) forward. Of course, the selected cigarette had to be tapped, as well. Lighting took real dexterity. The match (lighters were acceptable, but vaguely effete) was held pointing inward between the first and second fingers so that, when struck, it was immediately cupped in both hands. A real smoker could stand on the bow of a ship breasting a gale and light up on the first try.
    Crow marveled at how hard he’d worked to destroy himself. He threw back his shoulders and stretched, glancing down at Major. The dog dozed, pressed against his master so any movement would wake him. That precaution overlooked his own twitches and noises. Crow assumed he was running and playing. He smiled to himself, wondering if dogs comprehended envy.
    He'd arrived at his meeting site early enough to see the restaurant crew arrive. Not far behind were the commuters ready for their start-up coffee and breakfast.
    After them came the early-riser cronies. Crow enjoyed how they ambled, plainly men who now let time serve them, rather than the reverse. They were older, familiar enough with each other to recognize a friend’s stride a block away and wave greetings. Jackets and sweaters were wrinkled and comfortable, a match for the lined, tested faces. Hats were universal - mostly baseball caps - and universally disreputable.
    Crow knew that once inside each would pull up his chair at his place at his table and give the waitress his regular order. She’d call them all "Hon," or Doll." They knew some basic facts about her. She knew more about them than some of their wives.
    Outsiders hardly touched their fellowship, very rarely penetrated it. In a sense, Crow knew them all. He’d had his coffee and the breakfast special in more places like Martha’s than he could count. The cronies talked about everything and argued about all of it. Crow considered it a point of honor to never eavesdrop. Still, it was hard to avoid some of the group’s stronger feelings or louder punch lines.
    Sometimes he’d seen a group break up leaving a lone man behind. With the others gone, the one left would sag. Eyes that sparkled a few minutes earlier would burn out. The waitress would almost always come by and chat. The gratitude in the man's smile could bruise your heart.
    Spotting Pastor Richard’s approach, Crow leaned out the lowered window and waved. The action woke Major. He stood, looked out, and wagged his tail furiously. Crow lowered the window on Major's side. Pastor Richards came there and scratched behind Major’s ear. The dog lunged and tried to lick off his new friend’s after-shave. Pastor Richards dodged, chuckling. He said, “Morning, Crow. Friendly fellow, this one. What’s his name?”
    Crow told him and Pastor Richards laughed. Crow said, “He’s usually friendly, but he’s really taken to you.”
    The Pastor winked. “Common ground. Animals and religious have an understanding. Look at St. Francis.”
    “You’re Protestant. Didn’t think you’d have much to do with saints.”
    “You some kind of theologian? A good