Tim looks longingly across the lake. If only he'd been able to row back to their campsite. Then they could climb right into the camper and drive home.
The bank here is steep, too steep to bump the raft onto the shore, so Tim steps out into the water, still in his shoes. At least he's wearing canvas sneakers that won't be ruined.
"Come on." He says it roughly and reaches a hand out to help his grandfather.
Ignoring the offered hand, Granddad throws his legs over the side of the raft and steps into the water. Tim notices, grimly, that his grandfather's lips are blue.
Serves him right if he's cold, he thinks. Serves him right!
When they step up onto the land, Granddad makes no attempt to assist Tim with the boat. He just clambers up the bank and stands at the top, gazing off into the forest. After several attempts to get the raft up the steep bank by himself, Tim gives up and ties it to a sapling. He leaves the tackle box in the bottom of the boat. They have a long walk ahead of them, and the tackle box is heavy. Besides, Granddad probably wouldn't help with that, either.
His grandfather doesn't seem to notice that Tim is leaving anything important behind. He just starts out walking, taking the lead and moving around the end of the lake toward their campsite on the other side. At least he knows the route. Though any baby could make it to their campsite with the shore of the lake to follow. The sun is sliding down the sky, approaching the tops of the trees, but they should have plenty of light to find their way back.
Off in the woods, something rat-a-tat-tats against the trunk of a tree. Loud enough to be a jackhammer. Must be a pileated woodpecker. They are the only ones big enough to make that much noise.
Tim isn't sure why he's so furious, even now that he realizes Granddad was yelling at Franklin before, not at him. Maybe he's angry because it is so apparent that his grandfather is leaving. As surely as if he walked out the door, he is going away.
Maybe he's angry because ... But he doesn't know. He doesn't care. The anger just sweeps through him, and he opens himself to it as to a cleansing wind.
The trek through the forest is rough. An occasional path created by deer or by anglers goes directly to the lake, not around it. At least the woods they are moving through are dense enough that there is not much undergrowth, but the trees themselves crisscross the ground with knobby roots. Occasionally they come to a windfall, too, and have to crawl over or make their way around the rotting trunk.
Granddad keeps moving. He doesn't even glance back to see whether Tim is following.
When they get back to the camper, they can get warm. They can have a sandwich, too, and some hot chocolate. No. No hot chocolate. Granddad forgot to take on water. Though perhaps they could boil some water from the lake. Is there anything dangerous in the water that wouldn't be killed by boiling? Tim doesn't think so, but he's not sure. Can he trust his grandfather to answer a question like that?
As soon as they are warm and fed and rested, they will drive back home.
Tim studies his grandfather's back. His gait is unsteady. He stumbles often. He will be able to drive when they get back to the camper, won't he?
Bullfrogs croak from the edge of the lake. They sound like string instruments in a school orchestra, clumsily tuning up. As Tim and his grandfather approach, the frogs go silent. Tim wants to stop, to wait for them to start up again, but the sun is below the tops of the trees now. Granddad doesn't slow his stumbling progress, anyway.
A noisy red squirrel on a branch above their heads tosses down an acorn, then another. Tim wonders whether the little creature is harvesting for winter or warning the human intruders away. Tim wouldn't mind being a small squirrel himself, with acorns to throw.
A bird Tim can't see whistles a descending tune, like a boatswain's whistle. A white-throated sparrow? He would ask his grandfather, but what does Granddad know? Birds are Grandma's territory.
And then he understands. In an instant, he realizes what has made him so angry. It is the way his grandfather talked ... thinking he was talking to Franklin. The things he said. The manner in which he said them.
Useless! He must have talked to his own son that way. No wonder Franklin went away and refused to come back. No wonder he'd had "problems"!
"You were mean to my father." Tim aims the accusation at his grandfather's back.
It's just a guess. No one has ever suggested anything of the kind. Except maybe for the few times when Granddad had gotten really angry with Tim. The minute his voice went up in volume, Grandma would cut him off. "Are you going to start that again?" she'd say, her own voice heavy with meaning. Until now, Tim had never understood what she meant.
But now he is absolutely certain that his guess is right. Granddad didn't get along with his son. Didn't even like him, from the way he'd sounded.
He calls again to his grandfather's back. "You used to yell at Franklin, didn't you? You used to call him names."
This last stops Granddad abruptly. He turns to face Tim, but he doesn't look at him. He doesn't respond to his accusations, either.
Tim has lived too long in the silence about his father. Too long with the adult lies. Nobody knows why he left, Tim. We don't have any idea why he would do such a thing.
"No wonder my father didn't want to stay," he says "if that's the way you used to talk to him!"
Granddad doesn't defend himself, doesn't move. He just stands there with his head bowed, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.
"It's your fault."
"It's my fault," his grandfather agrees, though his voice is so flat, so without feeling the words seem almost to have lost their meaning.
Even though Tim said it first, even though he'd known it before he said it, he is stunned. "What did you do to him?" he asks when he can speak again. "Did you tell him he was useless?" The question is almost a whisper.
Granddad sighs deeply, as though he finds the entire discussion intensely wearying. He replies, still without any feeling that Tim can detect, "Yes. I told Franklin he was useless."
"No wonder he left." Tim can barely say the words.
Granddad fixes Tim with those mild blue eyes and replies simply, "He had no choice. I told him he had to go."
Tim stands still as a deer caught in the glare of approaching headlights, though his head is reeling. Had to go? He told my father he had to go! He reaches out to support himself on the trunk of a nearby sapling.
"But why? Tell me why."
He waits, as though by merely standing there he can force his grandfather to answer. He knew, though, even as he asked the question, that no answer would come. And he was right.
His grandfather has already turned and, weaving a bit, is walking again.
"He must have hated you!" Tim shouts after the retreating back. "My father must have hated you. Do you know that?"
His grandfather doesn't answer that question, either. He just keeps walking, keeps moving ahead around the rim of the lake until the trees and the occasional low bushes close in behind him, obscuring him from view.
Tim waits until even the crackle of twigs, of dry leaves beneath his grandfather's feet is silenced. Then he begins walking, too.
He was right. He supposes he should feel good about that. He was right.
But he has never felt worse in his life.
TEN
Where Are You?
Home! Tim touches the side of the camper almost reverently. The walk was so long—the hike around the end of the lake must have taken at least an hour—that he'd begun to wonder if he was ever going to see their campsite and the old pickup camper again.
The last of the sunset has drained from the sky over the lake. Silver, then pewter, now charcoal gray. Soon the sky will be a dark navy blue ... on its way to black. There is no sign of a moon yet.
Tim scans the campsite. No sign of his grandfather, either. He walked on ahead at a steady enough pace that Tim never caught up with him. Not that he tried.
The old man is probably inside the camper already, eating his
stinky salami.
Tim wraps his arms around himself and shivers. The wind has grown stronger, more insistent, instead of dropping as it so often does around sunset. The lake is dotted with whitecaps. The air is definitely cooler. Tim's jeans are wet, his feet, too, and even parts of his sweatshirt. On a night like this, his clothes would barely be enough to warm if they were dry.
He steps away from the camper. What will he say to his grandfather? What is there left to say except to repeat the question. Why? Why did you send my father away?
Would it make any difference, even if he answered? Leo Palmer abused his son, yelled at him, called him names. He admitted that he did. And then, just when someone was on his way into the world who was really going to need Franklin, he told him to leave. What was wrong with the man?
He would never forget that his grandfather did that. Never forget and never forgive.
A gust sets the trees creaking and moaning overhead, brings waves to slap at the shore.
Tim shivers again. He has to go in there and face his grandfather. What will he say to him? What is there left to say to him? No wonder everyone has been so reluctant all these years to talk about Franklin, to say anything about him at all. Talking about him might have forced them to admit the truth, that Granddad was to blame for Tim's never having seen his father ... even once. For his father's never having seen him.
Tim moves around to the camper door. Funny that Granddad is in there without a light. There is no electric hookup at this campground, but they always used to keep a gas lantern tucked away in the cupboard, and it must be dark enough inside to need it now.
As soon as they both have something to eat, Granddad can drive back to Sheldon, back to the house. Once the grownups are through with the fit they're sure to throw—funny how quickly people can go from scared to angry—Tim will tell them the truth. And the truth is that he's ready to go home. Back to Minneapolis. Back with his mother and with Paul.
Granddad doesn't need him here anymore. If anything is clear, that is.
Besides, Granddad has no one to blame but himself. Even if he does have Alzheimer's, he can't use that as an excuse for the way he treated his son. Franklin has been gone for years!
Tim shakes himself. Why is he standing out here, getting colder and colder? And what is he afraid of, anyway? Certainly not a forgetful old man.
But when he steps onto the bottom step and puts his hand on the doorknob, just lays his palm on the cold metal, he doesn't even try to turn it. Because he knows.
His grandfather isn't in there. The camper is too quiet. The windows are too dark. Even the wind that had been rushing about a moment before is suddenly too still. But since there is nothing else to do, he turns the handle anyway. Or tries to turn it.
The door is locked.
Tim steps back down to the uneven ground and scans the darkening campground. Empty. He and his grandfather are the only campers here. They haven't seen another soul since they left Melvin's.
Where else could Granddad have gone? He was walking ahead, following the lake. Even he couldn't get lost in the woods following the perimeter of the lake.
Tim executes a slow circle, searching the campground again. His gaze falls on the outhouse in the center of the loop of campsites, a rustic building designed to blend in with the landscape. Except for the smell. That never quite "blends."
Tim smiles at the thought, and the cold certainty of disaster that has been clutching at his throat loosens its hold. The outhouse. That's where Granddad is, of course. He'll be back any moment now. All Tim has to do is wait. He sinks slowly to the camper steps, uncertain whether he has chosen to sit or if his knees have simply given way.
What would he have done if Granddad had truly been gone? If he'd found himself alone in this forest? He won't even think about that. He can't.
A pale egg-shaped moon rises from behind the trees on the other side of the lake. It lightens the surrounding sky, glimmers on the surface of the water. But beneath the trees surrounding the camper, the shadows only grow more dark.
Tim scuffs at the ground with the heel of his wet sneaker. His shoes aren't sodden any longer, but they are certainly far from dry. His clothes adhere to his skin with a clammy grip. The night air is damp, too, so that the persistent wind is little use in drying them.
Why is the old man taking so long?
Old man. He's never used such language about his grandfather before. Not even in his mind. But then he has never felt about him the way he feels today.
How could Granddad have treated his own son that way?
And why is he taking so long in the outhouse?
After another long minute, Tim gets up and heads for the privy. He'll knock on the door, tell him to hurry. If he, Tim, could only drive—if he even had a clue about driving, especially a truck with a stick shift—he would take himself home and leave Granddad dreaming in the stink house. That's what the two of them have always called it, the stink house.
But as he approaches the privy, his steps grow increasingly leaden. Is it possible that he is wrong about his grandfather being there, too?
He stops in front of the outhouse door, closes his eyes, pleads under his breath. "Please. Let him be here." He doesn't know who he is talking to, really. Whoever it is out there who invented Alzheimer's disease?
Tim knows, even before the door rasps open, releasing the dark smell hiding behind it, that his plea won't be answered, and he is right.
The privy is empty.
He slams the door and turns back, his gaze skimming the shadowy campground. Where is Granddad? Where could he be? He couldn't have gotten lost on the way back to their campsite. That isn't possible.
Unless he didn't want to get back to the campsite.
Unless hearing those words—"He must have hated you. Do you know that?"—made him want to be lost.
Tim's heart pounds. His breath comes in short gasps.
Half running, half stumbling, he heads back to the camper. Maybe the door isn't really locked! Maybe his grandfather is there by now.
But, of course, he is wrong yet again. The handle won't turn. And when he pounds on the door, there is no response. Tim leans his forehead against the cold metal, trying to breathe, trying to think. A mournful hoot sounds from the branch just over his head, and he jumps away from the camper, letting out a small, strangled scream.
Can the owl tell from hearing him that he's too tall to be a mouse?
He wants to run. Anywhere. Everywhere. But he forces himself to stand instead, forces his breathing to slow. "It's all right," he says, speaking out loud. "Just be still. Everything is all right." It's what his grandfather used to say to his animal patients when they were frightened. "Be still now. Everything is all right."
Tim's hammering heart is the last to obey the order.
What should he do? He can't search the forest. Can't even begin. It stretches for miles and miles all around. He doesn't even have any idea how many miles. Grown men have gotten lost in there, hunters who go into the forest in full daylight with compasses and topographical maps and guns, with all kinds of aids for surviving, for finding their way out again. There is only one direction he knows for certain, the gravel road that leads out, that leads back to Melvin's.
It is several miles back to Melvin's store. Five or six, at least. Two or three miles to reach the edge of the forest. Another two or three to the corner and Melvin's store. And Tim is already cold and hungry and tired.
His grandfather must be cold and hungry and tired, too. Probably even more than he is.
Will Granddad die in the forest? Is that what he wants, to die?
A whimper escapes, forces its way out between Tim's lips. I didn't mean. I didn't...
The silent shadow passing over him sends him into a crouch, his arms over his head for protection.
He rises slowly. Granddad would laugh, seeing him this way. Afraid of an owl. Afraid not even of the owl but of the owl's shadow.
"Granddad." The cry is thin, useless, only a
nother tremor in the rising wind. "GRANDDAD! WHERE ARE YOU?"
ELEVEN
Found
He might have been walking for hours. It probably hasn't been that long, but Tim's feet and legs ache, and the night has grown so black that the stars are bright pinholes in the shroud of the sky. If it weren't for the moon, he would have trouble even making out the boundaries of the narrow gravel road he has been following. As it is, the faint light is insufficient to keep him from stepping into a rut now and then. He has turned his left ankle twice, and now it throbs.
He walks on, almost relishing the pain. It takes his mind off the thunder rumbling in the distance. Off the way his sodden jeans chafe his skin. Off the rawness of his throat when he calls, again and again, "Granddad!" It almost takes his mind off the silence that comes back to him after each call ... like an accusation.
How could he have spoken to his grandfather that way? How could he have let him go on ahead? How could he even have encouraged him to go camping? He came here to help, but he has made everything worse.
Whatever happened between his grandfather and Franklin, Granddad has always been good to him.
He attended every father-son scout banquet Tim ever was involved in, even when he had to close the clinic early to do it. He was always at his Little League games, too. He taught Tim to fish, to build a campfire, to roll a sleeping bag so small it could actually be stuffed back into its original bag.
When Grandma wasn't looking, he even used to sneak Tim ripe olives from the table while they were enduring the endless wait for holiday dinners.
"Granddad!" he calls again.
A dark shape lumbers across in front of him, several yards down the road. Tim stops abruptly, peering after it. A bear? No, too small for a bear. Too big to be anything he wants to meet, though. Probably a raccoon. He shivers. Raccoons' masked faces are comical, appealing, but something about their profile, the rounded back, the lowered head, makes them sinister. He would almost rather encounter a bear. The black bears they have here in Wisconsin rarely bother people.
An Early Winter Page 6