by Ash Davidson
His dad sniffed his hair. “Wowee, he does.” His dad tickled him.
“Stop!” Chub squealed, squirming, but not too hard. Not hard enough to get free.
June 10 RICH
Colleen zipped Chub into his slicker, Chub begging to bring the old dog along.
“Not this time,” Rich said. When they’d let him off yesterday, he’d hobbled out onto the highway and stood in the middle of the pavement, braying. A chain can ruin a dog.
Chub ran ahead up Bald Hill and down the other side, ducked into the brambles to hide. Rich took Colleen’s cold hand and squeezed three warm pulses. She squeezed back. She could keep ahead of the nausea as long as she got something in her stomach first thing.
“Chub?” Colleen called.
“Where’d he go?” Rich asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe the bears ate him.”
“Bears don’t eat people,” Chub called from the undergrowth.
Rich growled. Chub thrashed free, shrieking, giddy with terror.
Up at the 24-7, they rested, their backs against the big tree. Bark pressed into the knots in Rich’s shoulders. What choice did he have, besides accepting the man’s offer and walking away still owing more than twenty grand? Even if he could find someone else to buy the land, that might take months. And what would he do for work?
“What?” Colleen asked, eyeing him.
“Nothing.”
Chub crawled into his lap.
“What are you going to be when you grow up?” Rich asked him.
“A carver. What did you want to be?” Chub asked, banging his head back against Rich’s chest to look up into his face.
“Me?” Rich let out a breath, but it did nothing to loosen the tightness in his chest. The guys would have a field day when they found out. Selling out to the tree huggers at the League? They’d rib him for the rest of his life.
“Dad?”
“What?” Rich asked.
“What did you want to be when you growed up?”
“Grew,” Colleen corrected him.
Rich looked down at the stumps of Lower Damnation Grove, muddy skid roads scarring the steep side.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Chub pressed him.
“Nobody ever asked me that,” Rich said, putting an arm around Colleen. “A logger, I guess.”
If he could jam a wedge in and stop the machine, cogs of time grinding to a halt, he would stop it here: the three of them together, the 24-7 stubborn, proud, and, for now—for another week or two, whatever short time was left—his.
Chub squirmed.
Rich groaned, lifting Chub off his lap. “Let’s go home.” He pulled Colleen to her feet.
“Race you,” Chub said.
“I’m too old to race,” Rich said, “I’m an old—” He sprinted, Chub shouting, Cheater, shouting, Wait! Daddy! Wait!
* * *
Colleen made peanut-butter-and-cheeses for lunch, though it was only ten o’clock. Rich got the table saw set up, pulled the tarp off the stack of salvage wood.
“I told Enid she could drop the kids off on her way,” Colleen said when he came back in, buzz of the saw still ringing in his ears.
Chub sat at the table, newspapers spread out, working on his driftwood.
“I’m tired,” Chub said.
“Go put that away,” Colleen told him. Chub closed the knife and pushed back from the table.
Rich yawned. “I’m tired too,” he said, padding down the hall after him. Chub returned the knife to the drawer, then threw himself down on the bed, pretending to sleep, his dimples giving him away. Rich flopped down beside him. Chub opened one eye, then rolled onto Rich’s chest like he’d pinned him. Rich tickled him. Chub shrieked and wrestled until they both lay still, panting.
“One of my whale wishes came true,” Chub said, picking at a button on Rich’s shirt.
“What whale wishes?” Rich asked.
“I wished for you to get another Scout.” Chub looked down at Rich through the thick fringe of his bangs, his green-blue eyes flecked with gold, his small, bony chest pressed against Rich’s. “And for a goldfish.” Chub bit his lip.
A horn blasted out front.
“They’re here!” Chub sang. He sprang to his feet and ran out.
Rich watched Chub disappear around the corner and out of sight, then groaned, got to his feet, and followed.
“Where do you want her?” Enid asked Colleen, baby on her hip.
“I’ll take her,” Colleen said, and groaned. “She’s getting so heavy.”
“You’re telling me,” Enid said.
The girls plunked down in the entryway, kicking off their boots.
Through the front window, Rich saw Eugene sitting in the truck with Agnes. They were taking her to an eye specialist in Medford and would be gone all day. He and Eugene had orbited each other, finishing up the salvage job and parting ways without exchanging a word. Rich wasn’t ready to see him yet: the fading bruises and scabbed-over cuts would shame him. Eventually Rich would hold out a hand and they’d shake, agree to put it behind them, but not now. Not yet.
“Wyatt! Be good!” Enid yelled down the hall. “Did you make a list?” she asked Colleen.
Another week or two until the timber was milled and they split the profits, Eugene and Enid running on fumes. Rich ducked out the back door, leaving Colleen to dig out her grocery list, her pocketbook, the extra twenty bucks she would slip into Enid’s hand.
CHUB
“I have to piss,” Wyatt said, but he walked past the bathroom into Chub’s parents’ room.
“What are you doing?” Chub asked, following him.
“Just looking.” Wyatt pulled open his mom’s nightstand drawer and rifled through, then crawled across the bed to search his dad’s.
Chub heard his mom talking to the girls in the front room. Wyatt reached his arm way back.
“Hey,” Wyatt said, grinning. “Look what I found.”
Wyatt held out the knife. Chub backed up.
“We’re not allowed,” Chub said.
“What are you going to do, tell?” Wyatt flicked Chub on the side of the head. He sat down on the bed and fiddled with the knife, trying to figure out how to open it. “Be right back,” Wyatt said, dropping the knife on the bed.
Chub heard the sound of pee in the toilet. He looked at the knife—his knife. The toilet flushed. He snatched it, shoved it down inside his bib pocket.
“Chub,” his mom said when he passed through the kitchen. “Put your slicker on if you’re going outside, please.” He pulled the slicker off its hook and slid his arms into the sleeves. “Don’t go far, okay?”
He slipped out into the misting rain. The old dog waddled up. Chub scratched him under the chin—Who’s a good boy? Then he heard Wyatt in the kitchen and he ran, knife clunking against his chest bones. The back door opened. Chub dove into the ferns.
“Chub?” Wyatt called. “Here Chubby-Chub-Chub.”
From his hiding spot, crouched up the hill, Chub watched Wyatt in the yard. Ferns tickled his ears. His rubber slicker squelched. He held his breath. Wyatt kicked through the grass as though searching for a dropped quarter. Carefully, so carefully, Chub lifted his binoculars to his eyes. The view went blurry with brambles until there, right in front of him, was Wyatt. Chub could see every freckle on his face. He stretched out his breath. Time stretched with it. If he breathed, Wyatt would see him. One one thousand, two one thousand, three, four, five—he gasped, Wyatt looked up, and time snapped, Wyatt catapulting into the tall grass.
Ferns thwacked Chub’s face, brambles clawing at his overalls. He scrambled up the hill, tripping and running down toward Little Lost Creek.
“You’re dead!” Wyatt yelled.
Chub took a running leap, landing with a splash in the shallows. He scissored his shoulders free of his heavy slicker, shrugged it off, and ran. He slid down the next ridge to Garlic Creek, got a running start, and landed with a giant splash, deep to his
knees. He sloshed up the opposite bank, cold water running down his legs, socks squelching inside his too-big birthday boots, clawing his way up, up, up. His breath scraped the back of his throat. His side ached. He still heard Wyatt behind him. He climbed and climbed, his face hot, until finally he was up by the 24-7 tree. He pressed his hand to its bark the way he’d seen his dad do, wishing a door would open.
“Chub, wait up, you pussy,” Wyatt called from below.
Chub tripped on his laces, caught himself, took off down the other side, slipping on wet needles, sliding on his butt, until he was down at the bottom of the gulch, standing at the edge of a muddy creek he’d never seen before, fast and brown, forking around chunks of mud and broken wood. This wasn’t right. Farther up, he saw the stumps from the big trees the trucks had hauled away, but this wasn’t the creek from last time. This creek was louder, thick as a chocolate milkshake, with foam and waves. He looked at his map, traced the line on his palm. Where was he?
“Chub!” Wyatt called. “Wait up!”
Chub turned and saw Wyatt staggering toward him, holding his side like he had a stitch. Chub knew this trick. He would fake it until he got close, then knock Chub over, pin him, and spit in his mouth. Chub looked back at the brown chop. His heart beat in his ears. He needed to pee.
“Chub!” Wyatt called. Wyatt’s face was red from running. For a minute Chub thought he was going to call truce. But then Wyatt grinned, tilted his head back, and slit his throat with his finger.
Chub bolted up, following the edge of the creek, rhymes pounding in his head. Damnation Creek leaks down from the spring, water so clean you could almost sing. You zag along Eel Creek, you follow the sound. On one side is town, and the other Knockdown. When you start to Shiver, you’re close to the river.
Beside him the muddy water thundered so loud he felt its vibration in his chest. He climbed and climbed until he came to the edge of a road pocked with bowls of rainwater. He looked back for Wyatt, but there was no Wyatt.
He didn’t know where he was—nothing looked the same—but he crossed the road and started climbing the hill on the other side. His legs were tired. His heavy boots rubbed his wet heels. He tripped on his laces and fell hard on his chest. His palms stung.
Behind him, a twig snapped. He pushed to his knees.
“Wyatt?”
He listened, his own breathing loud in his ears, the tok-tok of a woodpecker knocking on the door of his heart. He got up, backed away from the spot where he’d tripped, and kept going. He heard the tinkle of water, and suddenly there it was: Damnation Spring! Water so clean you could almost sing. He thrust his hands in, drank, patted his hot, itchy face. He looked down the hill for Wyatt, reached for his binoculars hanging from his neck. His hands touched air. They were gone! He spun around. He’d been holding them by the strap before, when he was running. He reached into his bib pocket but all it held was the cold, closed-up knife.
He sat down on a rock. He wanted to cry. He snapped the knife open and locked it. The forest was dimmer now. The air felt stiller, cooler. Big trees creaked overhead. His wet clothes clung. His fingers tingled. He wanted to go home. He wanted his mom to peel off his wet shirt and rub his shoulders with a towel warm from the dryer. Raindrops flicked his face. He would be in trouble for losing his slicker.
Cold sweat stuck his shirt to his back. Chub shivered. He got up, dragging his feet down the hill, following Damnation Creek. He knew the way home from here, but it was a long, long, way. He started to sniffle, nose leaking, plodding downhill to No Name Road. He crossed to the other side and tromped down through the mud and rocks and broken logs, too tall to see over, a maze he kept turning scary corners in, until he came to a clearing. Mud sucked at his boots as he crossed it and stood at the edge looking down where soil had caved away: a big drop.
Behind him, a stick snapped.
“Got you!” Wyatt yelled, slamming into his back. The knife flew from his hand. He watched it sail through the air, flipping end-over-end down toward the creek below, and then he was falling, falling, falling. His head conked against a rock. His eyelids felt heavy. It was getting dark. Mama. He wanted her to turn on his night-light.
“Get up, retard.” Wyatt rolled Chub onto his back. He sounded far away.
Through his fluttering eyelashes, Chub saw Wyatt nudging his leg.
“Chub, get up.” Wyatt squatted over him. Chub felt his head lifted up, warm water trickling behind his ear, then it dropped back, hitting the rock again. His eyes were hot and gluey, Wyatt blurring, backing up. And then he was gone.
Where’d you get those beautiful green eyes? he heard his mom ask. He felt the little puff of hot air the words made against his temple. Chub, don’t go far, okay? Stay where—Chub, don’t go—
He lay there. The light faded.
Chu-ub? his mom yelled.
Then his dad, in the distance. Chu-ub?
Their voices lapped over him. They were far away, but they were coming. They were coming to sweep him up in their arms and carry him inside.
COLLEEN
He never went far. She couldn’t recall exactly what time he’d gone out, though it seemed important now. Like if she could just remember the time, a buzzer would go off and Chub would walk in the front door. She heard the girls playing in the front room.
At first, she was sure Chub was crouched somewhere on the hill, hiding. Stand up, she’d commanded in her mind as Rich had waded up through chest-high sword ferns, calling his name. She’d stayed in the house, like they’d agreed, squinting out the kitchen window into the mist, watching for Rich to emerge, leading Chub by the hand, Wyatt trailing defiantly. She wiped her breath off each of the back door’s nine wood-trimmed windowpanes with the cuff of her sweater, Bald Hill shrouded in fog.
He never goes far. He knows to stay where he can see the house.
If they’d gone and gotten lost, it was Wyatt’s fault. Chub would never wander away on his own. Wyatt was a bully, just like his father; she would keep Chub away from him from now on.
Minutes peeled past on the kitchen stove clock, the seven rotating up to replace the six. She checked on the baby. It must have been around noon when Chub went out. He’d be cold, worn out. He’d want warm milk heated in a saucepan with a dash of brown sugar. He’d press his wet socks against the woodstove to hear them sizzle.
Colleen tapped her fingernail against the glass, but the old dog didn’t budge from his post at the edge of the yard, chain taut, barking his silent bark. She flipped through it all again: Enid had dropped the kids off. She remembered making Chub come back for his slicker. He hadn’t pulled the kitchen door shut all the way. She’d heard him out there, talking to the dog—Who’s a good boy?
Colleen had given the girls cookies and sent them outside to play, brought the portable radio into the living room and set up her sewing machine: a new dress shirt to replace Chub’s yellow one. She’d nudged the volume up until it drowned out Rich’s table saw, the occasional pop of pitch in the woodstove. She’d held pins between her teeth, expecting Chub and Wyatt to come barging in any minute to claim their rightful cookies, listening with half an ear for the baby, thinking about names—Pearl, Ruby, Marigold, Goldie for short. By the time she finished—just the buttonholes left—it was time to start supper. She’d jabbed the extra pins into the cloth tomato, checked on Alsea, added the names to the list on her nightstand, and gone to start the casserole. Salting the water for the noodles, she’d looked out the window and realized she didn’t see him.
Now, more than Chub’s small form, his new overalls rolled in wide, floppy cuffs up over the still too-big boots—she should have bought the next size down, but oh well, he’d grow into them—it was the snap of the screen door Colleen kept replaying.
He’s fine. Rich will find him. Stop worrying. She touched her belly to reassure the baby.
She’d nestled the serrated lids down inside the empty tuna cans, grated cheese. The radio sang. She’d slid a hand through the geranium leaves and jerked the windo
w open in its track.
“Chub!” she’d called over the drone of the table saw. She’d drained the pasta, mixed everything together, slid the pan into the oven, and gone to feed Alsea. The comforting aroma of casserole had filled the house.
“Dinner!” she’d called out the back door, though it was only five o’clock.
The girls had tromped in.
“Where’s Chub?” she’d asked.
What had she done next? Gone to the back door and called him, then Wyatt. A mosquito netting of mist hung in the yard. The top of the casserole glistened, greasy skin of cheese clinging to her new spatula. The girls glugged their milk.
“Rich, dinner!” She’d had to yell it twice more before he heard.
Rich came in and stood at the counter with his plate, Chub’s seat empty. Wyatt hadn’t come back yet either.
“Chub!” Colleen had called out the back door. “I don’t see him.”
Rich drank off half his milk. “Maybe he smelled tuna.”
She’d gone out, scanned for a disturbance in the ferns.
“Chub! Dinner!”
After a minute, Rich had come out behind her.
“I don’t know where he is,” she’d said, suddenly panicked. Wind had washed over them, carrying the roar of the chop.
“Chu-ub?” Rich had called. “Wy-att?”
“Chub?! I’m counting to three!” Colleen had warned. “Chub! I mean it!”
“Maybe they went down to the creek?” Rich had suggested.
“Chub wouldn’t, not on his own.” She’d felt a flash of anger at Wyatt.
“You stay here, in case they come back,” Rich had said.
She’d wanted Rich to say Chub was okay, he was fine, don’t worry, to squeeze her cold hands in his long enough for her to absorb his warmth, his certainty. Instead, he’d loped up through the brush at a speed she would have had to run to match.
Left behind, she’d kept calling him. Chu-ub?! The wind swept her voice away. The dog whined.