THE WORDS IN THE BEGINNING STARED UP AT IVAN stared up at Ivan from his kitchen table and he recoiled. Was it that simple, such an old book? Something that was supposed to be so life-changing starting so simply almost made him laugh. It was the middle of the night and Ivan was alone in the kitchen. The funeral had ended earlier in the day and James had finally fallen asleep downstairs. On the drive home from the funeral, James had turned down every offer of comfort. McDonald’s, Carvel, pizza—Janet called them out from the front seat as their car cruised past the storefronts. After a while James just stopped answering.
Ivan had told Janet a couple of years ago that James never asked for anything—that it wasn’t healthy. She told him James knew they couldn’t afford much; but still, Ivan agreed, it couldn’t be good for a child not to want things.
So the boy went without supper. He went downstairs claiming he wasn’t hungry, though he kept coming back. His head hurt and he couldn’t sleep. Janet gave him some aspirin and went downstairs with him. After a while she came back up.
“He’s asleep at last,” Janet said. “He cried.”
Ivan nodded. Janet made some comments about the service. After a silent moment Ivan asked if she had that old copy of the Bible her father had bought them as a wedding gift. She got it down from the closet and said goodnight. Now alone in the kitchen, Ivan noticed it was bookmarked to a page where some scriptures were underlined. Love is long suffering. He tried to find Job, then thought it best to start at the beginning. He thought it odd that people skipped around the book—even Minister Roberts. Echoes of the sermon came back to him. None of this was supposed to happen. That’s what Ivan took from it, and the thought of himself one day inevitably lying in that coffin—of Kevin, and then James, sinking silently into the grave after him—had made him run from the funeral parlor.
He remembered sitting in the car, feeling ashamed, as he wiped his eyes with the back of his coat sleeve. The way Job had put himself back together made Ivan wonder why he never questioned his own misery. Did Ivan imagine this for himself? Did he lie in bed one night and dream of endlessly needing a drink to steady his nerves? Of marrying his high school sweetheart and then spending most of their marriage being angry with her because his life hadn’t gone in some other, better direction? Had he honestly hoped for all this? For odd jobs to get fired from, and mortgage payments to fall behind on? For his wife to go to work, first as a housekeeper and later as a manager of a convenience store on the east end of the island? For them to never take a family vacation? To be displeased with everything? Had he desired to live in a poor, depressed town; had he wanted to live the experience of dashing down the street barefoot when the cops came to tell him something had happened to his son behind Zambrini’s Brick and Masonry Yard?
On the day of the murder he had run down River Drive despite the cops cruising alongside him pleading with him to get in. He wasn’t thinking; he was doing. If he could, he would have grabbed the earth like an anchor rope and pulled his son toward him.
The cops at the scene must have been expecting Ivan to arrive in an orderly fashion, for they were sharing a cigarette and trembling over Dallas’s body when he burst from the hole in the fence and sprinted across the sand yard to his son. James was bleeding from his head, and when Ivan saw Dallas lying dead a few feet away, and some cops crouching beside little Felix, he reacted as if they were all dead and started clutching at James screaming, “Not everyone, not everyone!” The cops pulled him off. James was shoving him away. Ivan struggled with the cops until one of them yelled that he was trampling on evidence.
He had followed the ambulance out of the yard and had seen Janet and Kevin. The cops had set up tape and were holding the crowd at bay. Ivan went frantic again when he saw her, and they rushed toward each other. The cops nudged Ivan back under the tape and Kevin sprinted home to get the car. Ivan was hesitant about getting in, not without his flask. But he’d left everything back at the house when he ran out. He certainly couldn’t demand to go back home for it. But knowing where he was headed—not knowing what would await when he got there—made his mind itch more intensely. He needed to coat his fear.
At the hospital, when he’d learned James would be all right, when the doctors said they were just stitching his eye, Ivan slipped past the din of the Cassidys, family, and friends filing into the waiting room, and bought a three-dollar pint of Fleischmann’s. He had guzzled it down in the hospital parking lot, trying to keep his eyes open in the searing sunlight. Every time he closed them he pictured Dallas’s stiffening arms. Covered in dirt. Swelling in the heat. His fingernails had looked purple. His neck as thick as a grown man’s thigh. The boy’s mouth had been open. Stretched downward, almost like an old man, really. And not seeing him breathe, the finality of it . . .
Ivan had been crouching between a red Pontiac LeMans and a black BMW, tipping the pint bottle upward. When he’d finished, he had leaned against the whitewall tire of the LeMans and wiped his forehead. The shaking in his hands had begun to ebb.
Had he called out to God then? No. But he hadn’t yet heard the minister’s sermon. He hadn’t realized yet that there was such a permissible thing as complaining to God. In fact, he hadn’t realized a lot of things. Yet the minister’s sermon had seemed so immediate, so much what his congregation needed to hear. It was like they were getting healed.
So why did they skip around the Bible? he wondered. Didn’t they somehow need to know the whole story? And what was it about the minister’s words that seemed to coat their grief? No longer wanting to feel locked out of the world, Ivan stared at the words. In the beginning. It was the perfect opening, after all, he realized. He didn’t get far before he reached man’s first lament. Well before Job. He read until his head began to nod toward the open pages. Then he crawled into bed and reached his arm across Janet’s body. He could tell she was still awake. For the first time in years, she gripped his hand and drew him to her. He had left the Bible open on the kitchen table. When he went to bed, Adam was alone—and was just about to ask God to cure that for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
TWO WEEKS AFTER DALLAS WAS BURIED, James rose from his bed early one morning and pulled on a green shirt and a pair of shorts. The end of summer was drawing near. James had only recently stopped crying every time he awakened, or went to sleep, or took a shower.
There was nothing special about this day, except that he awakened with the birds, and had been stirred by a dream, and couldn’t go back to sleep. He tried to close his eyes, but the light from the eastern window, though dim, still buzzed beyond his lids, and he popped up from the bed. His feet found the floor, and he climbed the stairs to the kitchen. His mother and father were sitting there as usual, drinking coffee. Ivan was alert, but was surprised to see his son up so early. James stood in the doorway and stared at his parents. Ivan pulled the chair out beside him and patted the seat for James. Then he poured a half cup of coffee into a mug, filled it with milk and sugar, and slid it over to him.
“This’ll give you a pickup,” he said.
Janet, who ordinarily would have been lecturing Ivan, allowed this with a smile. James saw his mother’s approval and took a sip from his first cup of coffee. It tasted like dirt, and he wasn’t sure if he’d take another sip. Things were much quieter, James thought, ever since his father woke up the day after the funeral, gathered all his whiskey bottles from his horse barn, and poured them all down the kitchen sink in front of everyone. He had left one of the empty bottles of Fleishmann’s up on the kitchen windowsill as a reminder.
“Before you go back to school, I’d like to teach you how to ride a horse,” Ivan said to his son, rubbing the back of his shoulders. Janet stood up and went to the sink to rinse out her coffee cup.
“I want to go back in the woods,” James said softly.
Janet looked at her son. “Please don’t go far away from here,” she pleaded.
James turned to his father, who shrugged and sipped his coffee.
“I’m
not ready for you to go back in the woods, I’m sorry,” Janet said.
“Okay, Mom,” James replied, though inside, he’d made up his mind. He finished his coffee, got up from the table, and went downstairs.
In the kitchen, Janet and Ivan sat at the table. Ivan reached across and pulled the Bible over to him. He flipped it open and looked up at his wife.
“Maybe we should let James get back into his routine if he wants. I think the woods would be good for him. Therapeutic, don’t you think?”
“I don’t want him back where those sons a bitches can get him,” she said emphatically.
Ivan knew not to press. He nodded slightly and watched the sun settle on her face. Ivan was startled at how young she looked in the light, the same as when she’d insisted on an official first date and he’d brought her to the beach. He watched her look out the kitchen window. He could tell she was conflicted. She knew she should let James go into the woods, but she couldn’t find the strength to say so. She stood up and went to the windowsill, taking down the empty whiskey bottle. She caressed the clear neck of the bottle with her fingertips, down to the letters written on the cheap label. All the bad memories that bottle had caused. She stared at it in silence.
“If I knew that was going to be my last drink,” said Ivan, breaking the tense silence, “I’d have picked a better brand than that stuff.”
Janet looked over at him and saw that he was smiling. She returned the bottle to the windowsill.
* * *
Just after lunch, James headed out the front door and wandered down the street toward Floyd’s River. He kept glancing behind him, nervous that his mother would catch him at any second. When he wasn’t looking back, his eyes burned ahead for the mark. His mind raced with fear and anxiety, but his legs kept moving toward the patch of woods where Dallas had fought one of his last battles. The kids from down the street were probably finished with their fort by now, and he searched the tree branches above for the structure hanging in midair.
The dream that had startled James awake had been awful. He was sitting in a tree fort with Felix, and they were both laughing, rolling on their backs. Dallas climbed up the ladder that led to the middle of the floor, and poked his head through to look at them. His eyes were bloodshot, and his temples throbbed like a bullfrog’s neck. He was angry at them, and told them this was their fault. Just as he was about to climb inside, he fell back down through the hole. When Felix and James leaned forward and looked down, they only saw the empty rungs of the ladder nailed to the tree trunk their fort was built upon. Dallas had fallen into nowhere, and when James turned to Felix, he saw that his friend’s face was the devil’s, and he had six rows of metal teeth when he smiled. When James woke up, he realized what Dallas was likely calling for, even from the grave.
Alone, his eyes now fell upon the skeletal structure of the fort, no different than when they had left it. He looked further into the woods for a sign of the kids. He kept glancing back, and occasionally stopped to listen for his mother. A few feet from the shoulder of the road, he saw the pile of wood they had made. The kids had not been back since the fight. Like a swarm of bees after the hive has been disturbed, they must have moved on to a different place, and left everything behind. It was just the sort of luck James was hoping for. He stopped again and listened, but his mother still hadn’t called.
James grabbed the piece of plywood that he and Dallas had been carrying when they were chased. The board felt alive in his tender hands—a looking glass to things past. He shut his eyes. Pictured Dallas’s face illuminated with mischief. He flipped the plywood over so it lay on top of two support beams they had carried off. He piled all the shorter pieces on top of the plywood, and stepped further into the woods, approaching the sagging structure. His temples throbbed. He could hear his heart. He saw the hammers lying on the ground and picked one up, then took a huge swing and knocked the rest of the beams loose from the tree trunks.
Frantically, he kept looking around as he stuffed the hammer into his shorts, grabbed the pieces of wood by their ends, and ran backward with them. He was desperate to get to the other pile. Every so often, the long nail sticking out of the other end of the board would snag a root, and send James reeling. He’d turn around, shake the board until it was loose, and then keep running backward.
When he reached the first pile, he tripped over it. The sticks and pine needles jabbed his back. The boards he carried dug nails into his side, but James hardly felt it. He picked up the two support beams he’d used as runners for his sled, and began pulling the whole pile through shrubs, leaves, and between trees. He heaved with every last breath, pulling the sled down River Drive.
Panting, he looked through the woods once more, but saw no sign of the kids. He knew it would only be a matter of minutes before his mother called out. He wished he had Felix with him for help, but ever since the thing happened, his friend had been acting weird.
Halfway down the street, his legs gave out, and he fell flat on his stomach. Rolling over, he sat up and caught his breath. He took the end of his T-shirt and wiped his face dry. He could feel his cheeks burning red in the August heat. Then he stood to his feet, grabbed the two handles of the sled, and continued to run with the wood, until he fell again at the edge of his front yard.
Janet had just opened the door, and was about to call out for her son when she saw him lying flat on the lawn with a pile of wood at his feet. Her heart stopped at first, until he began to slowly sit up. She stood on the porch, her hands on her large hips. James looked over at her, breathless.
“What’s all this?” she asked, pointing to the pile of wood.
“Building a fort,” he confessed, still panting.
Janet closed her eyes. It was too soon, but somehow the world had begun to rotate again. She’d need Ivan to indulge her when she went back inside.
“Be careful,” she finally said in a defeated tone. “I’m going to call for you in a minute.” She stepped into the house and closed the door.
James sighed, and looked at the pile. He couldn’t bear to drag it another step, he thought, as he stood to his feet, picked up the handles, and kept pulling.
James dragged the pile deep into the woods, huffing, and searching for the three trees that had appeared in his dream—the trees upon which Dallas wanted the fort built. He could see, through the dense leaves, the faint lines of the Darwins’ backyard fence. It was chain link, and ran along the back of the property to the western corner where a larger picket fence started up. Behind the picket fence was Felix’s backyard.
Over at Felix’s, James heard a crack. After a long pause, he heard it again. James wiped the sweat from his face using his shirt.
Another crack rang out, and something cut across the tops of the trees, spitting through the leaves until it landed some twenty yards away. James eyed the triangle of trees that lined the sides of the trail, and reached for the first piece of wood to build his foundation. He slid a beam out from under the pile. It took a considerable amount of yanks, and when it was free, it sent James flying backward into the brush that marked the edge of the trail. The sticks dug into his back.
Rising slowly, he grabbed the edge of the plank and dragged it over to one of the trees. He took the hammer and some nails, and placed the board flat to the trunk. It took several swings.
His hammer falls echoed in the silent neighborhood, but his mother still hadn’t called. Suddenly Felix’s fence rattled violently. James peered through the trees. A small head rose from the top of the fence; Felix pulled himself above the pointed tops. The boy stared at him, and looked at the wood. James could see that the deep bruise near his hairline had now faded. His lip was healing as well. James smiled tightly.
“I’m building the fort,” he said, as if expecting Felix to hop the fence and join him.
Felix shook his head. “You just can’t help but make a ton of noise, can you?”
“What are you doing over there?” James asked. But Felix shook his head once more, and jum
ped down. James watched the fence rattle where Felix had been hanging. He was confused. When he heard another crack, it occurred to him that Felix was not going to join him. He stomped over to the other tree, turned his ear to the air, and heard a faint voice calling his name. He dropped his hammer and ran out of the woods, sprinting for his front yard.
Moments later, he was back at the fort, and climbing awkwardly to the top of the support beam. Once he was up there, he was able to see into Felix’s backyard. Felix wasn’t there anymore. The noises had stopped. He turned his face down in despair.
Soon he was nailing down the plywood, for James had created a flat stage some nine feet in the air. When James heard his mother call out, he hung down and dropped. He could only half jog back to his house.
After his mother acknowledged his return, James went around to his backyard, turned on the hose, and drank greedily from the spout. The water made a large fountain as it gushed from the hose and flowed over his teeth. He gulped with wide eyes. He guzzled the water down as if it were his last drink. Then he poured the water over his head. But as soon as he shut the hose off, the sun started cooking him again, and the relief he had felt from the water was gone. Ill-refreshed, he headed back to the woods to see the work he’d done.
* * *
The next morning, James got to his feet and stretched slowly, putting on the same clothes as the day before and painfully climbing the stairs to his kitchen. Ivan was already up to the Book of Leviticus, having read the whole previous day and into the late evening. James ate a bit of toast, gulped down a large glass of orange juice, and headed back out the door.
At the site, he once again heard yesterday’s noise from Felix’s backyard. He decided to ignore it, the way Felix had been ignoring him. James looked at the platform of his fort and knew it needed walls. The debris of plywood and scrap two-by-fours lay scattered at his feet. He didn’t know where to begin, and the wood felt heavier than it had the day before.
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