by Alice Archer
Fucking fuck it. I’ve practiced enough.
I shook with overwhelm, hot and disheartened and eager to be home.
The red flag was up at the mailbox. Freddie was busy writing at his mother’s house. Grant and the kids would be out for a while yet.
If I rushed home, I’d have the place to myself.
I’d be safe.
Chapter 54
Grant
The gravel track ran straight ahead of me, like an extension of Willow Way to the south. I stood on the pedals, leaned over the handlebars, and sprinted down the hill after Oliver.
The secretive weirdo must have followed us at a distance.
My brief sighting of Oliver included an impression of brown shorts and a forest green T-shirt. All that separated Oliver from the forest was his hair. I kept the reddish glint in sight until he made an abrupt right turn off the track onto a small trail, heading away from his house.
I hesitated.
The track continued south. By my reckoning, the abrupt edge of the island wasn’t far off to the right. For Oliver to get home, he’d have to recross the track at some point. Or… hell… maybe the track dead-ended.
I dithered too long.
I followed Oliver onto the trail, but didn’t see him again.
The cloud cover and the curving trail messed up my sense of direction until I became well and truly lost. I thought I’d turned to ride east, only realized I was still riding west when I had to brake hard on a patch of bare ground at the edge of the cliff. Thirsty and disoriented, I began to worry I wouldn’t find a road before twilight, or I’d make another wrong turn and pitch off into the cold saltwater of Colvos Passage.
I’d ventured way past the familiar.
Hours later, the sun’s slant toward the strip of bare sky at the horizon made it easier to get my bearings. I decided to dogleg north and east to intersect Bast Road. The paths in front of me blurred in the fading light, and I had to backtrack a few times after riding into the undergrowth.
The sun dipped below the horizon before I’d found the road.
Alone in the long northern twilight without a phone or flashlight, I dismounted and did my best to aim north and east. Chill flooded the air with silence.
By the time I bumped onto the asphalt of Bast Road, twilight had given way to spare moonlight. I rode as fast as I dared, guided by the contrast of beige gravel at the dark edge of the road. The slice of moon winked out behind a cloud and I got off the bike again to walk, turned right onto the gravel of Violetta Road, picked my way down the hill to Oliver’s driveway.
When I neared Oliver’s house, I moved onto the narrow strip of grass beside the driveway until I reached to the yard, wary of making noise. I left the bicycle under the carport and felt my way down the familiar path to my campsite.
In the tent, I succumbed to a post-adrenaline tremor, guzzled a bottle of water, and collapsed onto the sleeping bag with a long moan of relief.
I didn’t wash off the hours of sweat and tension. I didn’t eat, though my belly was empty. I didn’t remove my shoes or even zip the tent door. I didn’t do anything before I plunged into sleep except declare myself the detective in charge of solving the mystery of Oliver.
The next morning I woke in a vile state. Clothes stiff with dried sweat. Body a mass of aches. Stomach at DEFCON 1. I splurged on a double helping of on-sale strawberries and on-sale pepper jack cheese as I gathered stuff to take to the courtyard for a shower.
All the while, my mental map of Vashon Island pestered me.
It took me a while to locate the brochure I’d picked up on the water taxi. I found it in an inner pocket of my backpack and unfolded it to locate the area between Oliver’s house and the western edge of the island.
No roads. No anything. Solid, white-paper blankness.
Partway through my stiff shuffle to reach the shower, I thought of Google Maps. To get a signal on my phone, I had to be within sight of the house, which was on a slight rise. I paused under the trees near Oliver’s yard, pulled up Google Maps, and zoomed in. Same result. In map view, the area west of Oliver’s consisted of blank, gray nothingness. Satellite view showed a solid mass of green treetops.
I glanced up when I got to the yard. Two bicycles under the carport, but no van.
I shot off a text to Oliver. Did you decide to do your own errands this week?
In Seattle for the day, he texted back. Not that it’s any of your business.
The jerk knew I was looking for work in Seattle. He could have let me ride along.
Something bothered me about Oliver leaving with the van, teased at the back of my mind.
Like a dork, I decided to take a bike ride to mull things over, even though I’d just showered and I really hurt from the day before. I moseyed back along Bast, made the right turn onto Willow, and rode on past the spot where the girls and I had gone our separate ways. Within a few more turns, I’d reached Westside Highway. I took a left to head north.
A couple of miles on, I commandeered a homemade bus shelter and flopped onto the bench to munch my peanut butter sandwich and check the view of the Kitsap Peninsula and the clouds beyond. The view from our school bus stop in Eastern Washington had been the family’s print shop and Dad’s office. I’d watch Dad wave his arms at Mom, check the clock on the wall, and readjust his cap, which he did when he worried we’d miss a deadline.
I knew what my dad would say about my summer on Vashon: Stop wasting time, boy.
I fished out my journal and the ballpoint pen and scribbled a drawing of the scene in front of me, to distract myself from Dad’s voice in my head and so I could take the view with me when I left Vashon.
In the margin, in small letters, I tried out an idea: WORK + NATURE + KIDS.
My phone rang.
“Grant,” Mitch said in his brisk attorney voice. “Kai and I will stop by soon.”
“Today?” I sat up straighter, buoyed by the prospect of seeing Kai.
“No, but soon. Kai has been talking with us and I want to talk to you. Also, the father of one of the children you’ve been…” Mitch hesitated.
“Hanging out with?” I proposed.
“That’s not a phrase I would use, all things considered. Jill’s father approached me on the ferry with some concerns about you.”
“Really? What did you tell him?”
“Not much. I wanted to talk with you first.”
“Can’t we talk now?” I asked. Mitch getting on my case at Oliver’s place, where Oliver might witness my humiliation, seemed like a terrible idea. Oliver already thought I was a big loser. I rubbed my abdomen where the sandwich sat in a hard lump.
“I don’t have time now,” Mitch said, “and Kai wants to show me around Oliver’s. I’ll try to get to you before Jill’s father finds you, but I…”
“Wait. What? He’s coming to Oliver’s?”
“It sounded like he might. I know you wouldn’t do anything untoward with the kids, but he seemed suspicious enough that you should probably watch yourself. I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Well… hell.”
“I have to go.” Mitch hung up, leaving me with my journal open on my lap to an idea that seemed impossible.
On my way back south, I passed the yellow flowers I’d puked on the day before, wished them well with a repentant nod, and coasted down toward Bast Road. On a whim, instead of making the left to return to Oliver’s, I kept on straight, onto the track, like I had the day before, enticed by the prospect of taking another shot at figuring out the trails in the area where I’d failed to chase down Oliver. So what if I got lost again and ended up a quivering puddle of overused muscles. I wouldn’t be on Vashon much longer. I wanted to make the most of it.
Out beyond the spot where I’d lost Oliver, I veered east onto a trail up a hill so steep I had to walk the bike. Rhododendrons swiped at m
y bare legs as I huffed up the last few yards. I’d hoped for a view, but the trees at the top blocked the sky. I paused to assess the state of the trail down the far side of the hill, at the bottom of which, on a dirt turnaround by a creek, sat Oliver’s orange van.
Seattle, my ass.
With an almost audible click, the pieces fell into place.
The morning of my second day on Vashon I’d hiked through the woods from my new campsite and crouched under the carport to spy on Oliver. A little later, when I’d eavesdropped on him and Clementine, I’d heard Oliver tell her he’d driven to the hardware store that morning.
It didn’t add up.
I laid the bike on the ground with care and sat on the trail. With my phone silenced, I checked for cell reception, which I had, barely, probably only because I was on a high point, and settled in to confirm my suspicions.
I’d woken early that first morning, excited by forest sounds and slanted sunbeams. My fingers flew over my phone. Sunrise on June 22 had been at 5:12. I thought back, trying to estimate the timelines with accuracy. I’d stuck my head out of the tent at 5:30. I’d explored, found the spigot at the vacation house, moved my campsite, and fetched water until a little after 8:00. I closed my eyes to remember. It couldn’t have been any later than 8:15 when I crouched at Oliver’s van to watch the birds. I bent my head over the phone again to find websites for the island’s hardware stores. The one in the mall opened earliest on Saturdays, at 8 a.m.
The van had been cold. Chilly Pacific Northwest overnight cold. I’d put my hands and then my back against the rear of the van, where the motor was, to brace myself and remain hidden, to free my hands for my binoculars so I could watch the birds and then Oliver.
I checked one more thing—the driving time between the hardware store and Oliver’s house.
Thirteen minutes.
Even if Oliver had been at the store when they opened, shopped and paid in less than five minutes, then driven straight home, the van would have been warm when I leaned against it.
I put my phone away and stood. From my angle, I could see the driver’s side of the van. I didn’t see Oliver. Maybe he’d gone for a hike.
I thought of calling out to him. I put my hands to my mouth to direct the sound, took a big breath, but didn’t follow through. He would evade, fabricate a story, hold tight to his outer skin. I wanted to pierce through his lies.
I left the bike, retraced my steps down the hill a ways, then circled around. From the new position, I could see the back of the van and… Oliver.
He lay on his back on a log, head on a sweater, open book held above his head. He lifted a hand from his chest to turn a page.
I pulled out my journal, set it on the ground, took a photo of it, then texted the photo to Oliver with a message. Hey, mind getting me one of these journal books in Vashon on yr way home? If he’d actually been in Seattle, he could have stopped in town on his way south from the ferry dock.
I didn’t expect him to have cell coverage down in the hollow, but of course his service was better than mine. I heard his phone ping.
Oliver ignored the notification. Read a while. Turned another page. Recrossed his legs.
I typed another message: On second thought, get two?
Ping.
Oliver took his phone out of his front pocket, probably to turn it off. Just in case, I confirmed that my phone was on silent and watched my screen.
Swipe & Swivel? Oliver texted.
At first I didn’t understand his message. The tiny store where I bought the journals was called Easel & Desk. I managed to slap my hand over my mouth and laugh without making a sound when I realized “Swipe & Swivel” must be local vernacular for Easel & Desk.
Yep, I texted back.
No prob. Ferry’s pulling in now. Back soon.
For a full, unblinking minute, I stared down at Oliver’s message.
The little shit.
My thoughts spun as I watched Oliver lie there and read. When my ass fell asleep, I lay back and watched the treetops.
Whatever Oliver’s reasons were for his secret life, they were strong enough to cause him real pain—I’d seen it on his face at the bramble thicket before he’d walked away. I wanted to confront him, but I didn’t want to risk provoking a psychological event of some kind.
The sound of the van door closing interrupted my internal debate. I sat up to see Oliver already in the driver’s seat.
I’d followed trails far to the south on the bike without seeing any eastward tracks wide enough for a van. Unless Oliver knew of a secret tunnel, he’d have to wind around to exit the woods at Willow Road, where I’d come in. By bike, I could make a beeline for Oliver’s house. I was fifty percent sure I could do it without getting lost.
The idea of catching Oliver arriving home without my books took possession of me. I wanted to study the look on his face when he told me he “forgot.” It might give me a clue about his mental state.
I scurried to the bike, flew down the hill the way I’d come, and hooked a right toward Oliver’s house. I pedaled like mad, almost killed myself on the rough trails as I opted for speed over safety. When I blasted through a bright spot, I glanced up to check the position of the sun.
I dug deep and drove my body hard, but when I burst into the backyard from behind the workshop the van was already there. Unbelievable. I carried on to the carport and heard the tick of the cooling motor.
When I pounded on the front door, Oliver opened it, calm and cool, and handed me two little books. Exactly the type I’d asked for.
I couldn’t speak.
Oliver took in my breathless, wrecked state and raised his eyebrows in a question.
After a while, when I hadn’t said anything, he shrugged, bent to set the books at my feet, and closed the door.
Chapter 55
Oliver
Grant looked like he’d run to hell and back.
I expected at least a thank you when I gave him the books. I’d unearthed them from the back of a drawer full of notebooks and sketchbooks Dad, Granddad, and I had stockpiled over the years.
All I got was a wounded glare.
After I closed the door, Grant didn’t knock again, which was fine. I’d taken the morning off and was eager to return to the mural.
My painting technique required many thin layers to achieve the luminous, rich colors I craved. In the damp air of the Northwest Coast, each layer took a couple days to dry. The mural was big enough that I could paint a layer in one area and leave it to dry while I worked in another area. It would take months to finish the whole painting.
In the corners, I’d managed to make bits of nature pop with lush super-reality. I felt very proud of myself for that. It had required false starts and more than a few intense hours of research online and in my home library.
As I extended the super-reality toward the sleeping figures, tiny vignettes began to form in the shadows, under the dense mass of leaves, flowers, and vines. The first vignette emerged when I set out to paint the dim space under a large vine maple leaf. With my smallest brush dipped in gray, I painted a scene from my mind’s eye. A tiny man stood at a worktable in a barely suggested toolshed, his hand atop a boy’s head. The boy sat at his feet, leaned against his leg. I dipped the brush in gold for the boy’s hair.
I wondered what Freddie would think if he saw the vignette and the recognizable lines of Grant’s body. I set the brush down and stepped back to look at the entire mural. I’d roughed in the two large figures of the man and the boy, but left their faces blank.
I didn’t want to see Grant as the man in the mural, but I couldn’t seem to see anyone else. I wanted him to be Freddie. Either choice would require more explanation than I felt ready for.
The solution to my dilemma came as I stared at the oval placeholder for the man’s face: No one I know ever needs to see this painting. If I ne
ver showed it to anyone at home, I could paint to discover, explore to resolve, and when I’d finished, I could sell it online, ship the panels to someone far away.
I would never have to see it again.
I expected Grant to return to use my computer for his proposal on Tuesday, the day I gave him the books, but he didn’t. Nor did he return the next day. Maybe I’d find a draft of his proposal scrawled on the back of a soup can label stuck to my front door with pine sap.
On Wednesday afternoon, clouds moved in and settled, thick enough to muffle sound. No breeze. No sunlight. No people. Eerie. I closed the curtains in the bedroom and sat on the floor with my back to the bed to consider what area I wanted to paint next.
The protective way “the man” wrapped his arms around “the boy,” captured my attention. If the man was Freddie, the child could be ours. I leaned my head back on the edge of the bed and tried, for a long while, to imagine Freddie sleeping in a ditch. I couldn’t.
What if the man in the mural is me?
I slid down to lie on the floor and mirror the man’s position, lifted my arms to hug an imaginary child.
Aza flashed through my mind, shrouded in Clementine’s pain, too ethereal to grasp.
I hugged myself instead, felt more like the child in the painting than the man.
Dad’s hand on my head.
He thinks I’m asleep.
I’m not.
I leapt up and left the bedroom before I’d made a conscious decision to move. What the fuck was that? I snatched my phone off the kitchen counter and sprinted to the toolshed.
In the dirt in front of the toolshed door, someone had drawn an infinity symbol, which I obliterated in my rush to grab my carving tools. Someone had moved them from the floor to a wooden bin on a table set just inside the doorway.