by Rodney Jones
“Maybe I should be on my own.”
“John, if you went up there by yourself, I’d never see you again, I’d never know for certain what became of you. That’d drive me nuts. I have to see this, whatever it is. I have to see you actually go. Does that make sense?”
I had no problem seeing it from her point of view; it did make sense. “So how do you suggest we do this?”
“Come home with me on the bus. Stay the night in the woods. I have a tent and a sleeping bag you can use. In the morning, we’ll hook up down by the road, like we did yesterday. Then, well, we’re off to see the wizard.”
chapter ten
THOUGH WE WERE IN THE midst of the hotter days of July, the bus we boarded was as cool as October. I paused upon entering—a vibration tickling my bones—and stared down at row upon row of thick-cushioned, high-backed chairs, a band of glass wrapping its entirety. Tess and I took a pair of seats toward the front, while the other twenty or so passengers filed on by to the back. Before long, the bus was rumbling out of the depot, a cave of concrete and brick big enough to swallow all of Greendale.
I sat there like a first-day schoolboy, my hands folded firmly in my lap, my eyes taking in everything. As we moved along Route 7, the strange new world hurried by: a man pushing a cart with a big black bag inside, a boy on a blue bicycle, a thousand different signs, and machines of every shape, color, and size. I thought I was doing pretty well at keeping my trap shut, but then, just south of Rutland, a flying machine appeared above the mountain to our left. Tess saw it, too. She took a quick peek over her shoulder, and then, without a word from me, answered the questions sprouting in my mind, as well as those I couldn’t have even known to ask.
We arrived in Wallingford less than a half-hour from the time we left Rutland. The last mile to Tess’s house was covered on foot. She told me about her family as we strolled up the canopied lane between the main road and her house.
“I’ve seen my dad three times this year… holidays.”
“It ain’t much, is it?” I said.
“Oh, but he took me skiing with his girlfriend, Debra, back in March, though we didn’t really talk. We might occasionally do things together. I think Debra has more to say than he does.”
“Do you miss him?”
“I used to try to remember the good times with him, from when I was little. At some point, I realized just how few those were. I can’t really find much to miss.”
Once we arrived at the house, Tess rounded up some camping gear and then led me to a spot in the woods where I could have a small fire. She gave me a hand setting up the tent, for which I was grateful, it being as foreign to me as nearly everything else.
“There’re some things I need to get done before Mom gets home. I’ll try to sneak out later.”
“I hope trying don’t mean lying.”
“John, are you planning on being a preacher when you grow up?” Before I could give her a yes or a no, she added, “Sounds like you’re practicing.”
I reckoned maybe I had stepped over a line there to the none-of-your-business side. I glanced toward the ground. “I reckon maybe you’re right.”
“Right that you want to be a preacher?”
“No, right that I may sound like one.”
“Maybe you’d prefer having the woods to yourself.”
“No, ma’am. I’d be more than pleased to have your company.”
She stirred last year’s leaves with the toe of her shoe, a smile on her lips. “Good,” she said, suppressing a giggle. “I’ll see you later.” She turned toward the house, took a few steps, and added over her shoulder, “If I can come up with a convincing lie.”
I had four or five hours of daylight left, so I set about gathering wood for a fire. I looked for oak and found a few young trees and some dry twigs, but not enough to bother with. There seemed to be a lot more birch there than in my day, poorer than pine. I settled for maple, there being plenty of that.
Just to kill time, I took a mosey up the mountainside. About a hundred yards up from my campsite, I came to a twelve-foot-high rock shelf stretching about a hundred feet in length. I found my way up, sat on the edge, and let my feet dangle. There was nothing particularly interesting about the view, just trees and rocks on a downward slope, but it seemed peaceful, a place I could forget my problems. I got to wondering if Tess ever went off into the woods like that, for no reason other than to simply be there.
I tried to picture her in her world, the one that didn’t include me. I couldn’t see it, though; it was too far for me. She once told me we had nothing in common. Maybe that was it. It was one thing, though, to have nothing in common, and yet another to have differences. We had plenty of both. I figured none of it would matter once I got home. I’d never see her again.
I gave my head a quick shake, as though that would free me of her, then got to my feet and scanned the area above me. A little ways up was a small, grass-covered clearing with berry bushes lit by the sun. I climbed up to look for berries, but they’d all gone by. A branch of thorns snagged my pant leg. As I reached down to pull it free, I heard a rumbling sound building to the north. I looked up, and a deafening roar filled the air. Two flying machines streaked by just above the treetops. They were screaming loud. So loud, I could feel my bones shake. I followed them as they flew one alongside the other. In a few short seconds, they were gone. Comparing those to the machine I’d seen earlier from the bus was like comparing an eagle to a butterfly. There and gone, quick as all get-out. I stared up at the sky long after they’d passed.
What it must be like to fly…
Once I returned to the campsite, I kept myself occupied with building a fire ring and then made a couple of crude-looking camp chairs from rocks and tree limbs. I sat in one of my chairs, gazing toward the teepee of sticks waiting to be lit, thinking about going home and all the incredible things I’d forever have to keep to myself.
But then, the wagon… I didn’t recall ever hearing of anyone losing a team and a wagon as I had done. The word would spread like fire on the wind. I’d become that person folks enjoyed talking about, but never talked to.
The more I thought about it, the clearer it became: I couldn’t tell my uncle the truth, and I didn’t feel capable of a story that didn’t right off stink of a lie, either. That left saying nothing, simply refusing to talk. That, I realized, though, carried a price same as telling or lying, but seemed the lesser of the two evils.
Once the sun had dropped behind the mountains, I took the matches Tess had left me, started a fire, then sat back and watched the flames crawling up the twigs and branches. That first whiff of smoke roused my hunger. I missed Tess’s company. But then, maybe it was the caring she provided or the security of food I missed. I peered off in the direction of her house. It’d soon be too dark for her to find her way. I sat gazing into the flames, thinking about my aunt’s fried chicken and the smell of warm buttermilk biscuits. She’d often make fried chicken on Fridays, knowing it was my favorite. Perhaps it was my uncle’s, too.
My return was long overdue. I didn’t want to think about the worry and trouble I was causing, but nonetheless, an image of my uncle heading up over the mountain in search of me clung to my mind. He’d likely go all the way into Rutland looking for me, two days wasted. If I did manage to get back, I realized, I’d have the wrath of God waiting for me.
I was feeding sticks into the fire when I heard a twig snap. I looked toward the noise, my heart in my throat. It was well dark, and a strange light was moving among the trees. I prayed it was Tess. I kept still and quiet, a sitting duck in the firelight. If it happened to be anyone else, what could I do? Run?
“Hey, I’ll bet you’re hungry,” Tess said.
I let go of a sigh. “You’re a clever one.”
She was wearing a smile as she neared the fire. She carried a sack in one hand and an impossibly tiny lamp in the other. “I waited until Mom went to bed. Not so much as an itsy-bitsy white lie.”
I shook my head.
“Brought some wienies and…” She glanced down at the stool I’d made for her. “Hmm.” She set the sack down on it, pulled out a can, and held it out toward me. “Coke?”
“You’re an angel,” I said. “Thank you.”
“An angel.” She shined the lamp down at the chair. “You made this?”
I nodded.
“Nice.” She pointed the light into the bag she’d brought.
I studied the container in my hand. It resembled the King of Beers can I came upon the other day. “There’s Coke in here, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there a way of getting it out?”
“Oh, sorry. Here.” She extended her hand.
I gave the can to her. She lifted a metal ring on top—a snap and a hiss—then handed it back. I noticed an odd smell in the air. I lifted the can to my nose, but that wasn’t it. I sniffed again.
“Ready for a wienie?”
“What’s that smell?”
Tess sniffed the air.
“Smoke?” She sniffed again. “Oh. Off. Here.” She held out her hand.
I took her hand and held it close to my nose. It was by far the most unflattering perfume I’d ever caught wind of. “Well, that’s real pretty.”
She laughed. “Now who’s the liar? It’s mosquito repellant, John. It stinks. It’s supposed to keep the bugs away.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. And it tastes awful.” She made a face.
“They don’t much bother me.”
“They don’t bite you?”
“They bite, but I don’t mind a little itch.”
“Well, any bug that bites me is a dead bug.” She plowed her fist into the palm of her hand. “Ka-wam-o!” She snarled.
I snorted.
“You ready for a wienie?” she said.
“Anything edible.”
She dug around in the sack, pulled out something resembling a sausage, forced it onto the end of a stick, then handed it to me. “Cook it… in the fire. Here, I’ll show you.”
“I can manage that just fine.”
She stuck another for herself. “I like mine slow-roasted.”
As the meat sizzled and popped in the flames, the smell of smoke and roasting pork drifted on the air.
“What’s your favorite food in the whole world?” she asked.
“That thing right there on the end of this stick.”
“Me, too.” Flames flickered in her eyes as she smiled. About a minute later, she pulled her sausage from the fire, looked it over, and said, “Perfect.”
I pulled mine out, sniffed it, and then eyed it.
“Don’t eat it yet. I brought rolls and all the fixings.” She took my stick with the sausage still attached and handed it back on a roll with mustard and onion and pickle relish.
I took a bite. I’d never had a sausage anything like that. I devoured mine, hoping she’d brought more. “Mmm.” I gave her a big smile.
She had a mouthful and was doing her best not to laugh. She swallowed, took a sip from her Coke drink, then reached into the sack and came out with another tube of meat.
“I like doing this. It’s funny. I mean, you were born before the Civil War, and here I am sharing my hot dogs and Coke with you. Am I the only girl alive who has—”
“Sharing what?” I studied the meat at the end of my stick, as if I’d find some clue there as to its origin.
Tess gave me a puzzled look and then, a moment later, a wide grin. “Hot dogs. I think they call them that because no one has any idea what they’re made of, but I’m pretty sure there’s no dog meat in them. See, this is what I like about you. I can laugh, and you don’t take it personally. You’re fun to be with and nice. And nice looking.” She smiled, then quickly turned her gaze to the fire.
She’d not shown a hoot of shyness, prior to that. I was struck with a spot of shyness myself and couldn’t find any words. I bit into my hot dog and chewed. It didn’t feel right, not saying anything to acknowledge a confession such as that, so I told her I’d become fond of her and was afraid I’d be missing her come tomorrow, once I’d gone home.
We sat gazing into the flames, neither of us saying a thing. It was fine with me, how things were. How could they be any other way? I was thinking that what we’d done was spoke our minds. That wasn’t really it, though. What we had shared was clearly a matter of the heart, and we’d only just whispered what was there.
She began gathering the things she’d brought and putting them back in the sack.
She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and sighed. “We have a little problem.”
“We do?”
“My mom has to work tomorrow, which in a way is good. I can be gone all day without her having to know. But I won’t have the car to get us to Greendale, which means…”
“A long hike.”
“You think it’d be, like, five hours there?”
“About that, if we don’t stop any. That’s a lot of hiking for you.”
“Hmm.” She appeared to be lost in thought. “Maybe I could get one of my friends to drive us there. Still, we’d have to leave early and, unfortunately, none of my friends are early risers.” She dug down into the front pocket of her trousers and pulled out her cell phone. “Eleven twenty. Liz might still be up.”
She unfolded the phone, fiddled with it, then held it to her cheek. “Liz. Hey. No, she’s okay. She was just… well, you know. Thanks, yeah, that worked out great. We left him a note. Yes, I do, and actually, I have another little favor to ask. Mom’s using my car again, and I need to be somewhere in the morning. This place over by Weston. You know the music school? Near there. Can you?” A long pause, then, “Liz, you are the best!” A pause. “Uh, seven thirty-ish?”
I heard a tiny, buzzy, “What?” come from the phone.
“Well, the situation is, I need like eight or nine hours to do what I have to do, and I have to be done and back before Mom gets home.” Another pause. “Uh… it’s a long story, but really important. I promise I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Can you? Thank you, thank you, Liz. Seven thirty… yes. See you in the morning.” She folded the phone. “It’s just that easy.”
We sat there, enjoying the fire and each other’s company a bit longer, both of us resisting the inevitable, but then Tess said, “We should get some sleep.”
I nodded.
“I brought another flashlight, in case you need it.”
“A what?”
She handed me a blue metal tube about six inches long, no bigger around than my thumb. “Twist the end clockwise.”
I did. A bright beam of light shot from the end of it. I pointed it toward a nearby tree. As bright as the sun—just a tiny little tube. I twisted the end until it went dark, then again to make it light. “Amazing. You have another?”
“Yeah.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out one identical to the one she’d given me.
“You mind if I walk you to your house?”
“I’d like that.”
I passed through the dark with Tess at my side, our own little patch of starlight on the ground before us.
At one point, she stopped and turned. “Hear that?”
I listened. A barred owl hooted up on the mountainside, way off above us, and then another one at some distance from the first, calling back and forth. I told her how, as a boy, I was told that the hooting was black bears calling to one another.
“Did you believe it?”
“I did… for a long time.”
“I can picture the bears up there, standing on their hind legs, their paws cupped around their snouts, going ‘Who… who, whoo.’”
I chuckled. “That’s exactly how I used to imagine it.”
We came to the edge of her lawn. She pointed toward her house. “There’s a light by the back door.”
“A light?”
She gave me a nudge. “It’s off right now, duh, but I’ll turn it on in the morning as soon as my mom leaves, okay?”
“All righ
t.”
We said our goodnights. I watched her cross the lawn, then slip quietly through the sliding door off the back deck and into the dark house. I twisted the end of my flashlight and turned back toward camp.
chapter eleven
I BROKE CAMP AT FIRST DAYLIGHT. With Tess’s sleeping bag and tent dangling over my shoulders, I started off toward the house, but tentatively. I took only a few steps before stopping and turning. Was I leaving something? Or possibly taking more than I should? I scanned the campsite, seeing nothing to account for the curious feeling. There had been life there when I’d first arrived and well into the evening, a vibrancy about the trees and ferns, the air, even the rocks that circled the fire. It seemed with the morning light, that that was all used up, like a Christmas tree a week after the fact. No, it wasn’t anything I was leaving or taking, but something was definitely missing.
When I arrived at the house, the lamp by the back door was unlit. I stayed back a ways and sat leaning against a birch to bide my time. Like most everything else in 2009, sneaking around and hiding was new to me. It seemed an intrinsic part of being there, all the way back to the day I arrived. Even as I waited behind Tess’s house, I had a feeling that going home wouldn’t be the end of it.
I heard that curious rumbling from the other side of the house. It stopped, then started again. Within a few minutes, the lamp by the back door lit up. I gathered the camping gear—the stuff weighing no more than a dusty bucket—and carried it up to the deck.
The back door slid open just as I was coming up the steps. “Hey! You out there! Good morning.” Her smile was like a mountaintop sunrise. I felt a big foolish grin take possession of my face in response. “Get your primordial butt in here. I’m making breakfast.”
My primordial butt? I didn’t ask.
I sat at a table, which I couldn’t say was in the dining room or the kitchen, being no clear distinction between the two or the parlor, either—like all one big room. A limestone-colored rug extended from one corner of the room to the other right up to the walls, but then stopped short of the red clay tiles covering the kitchen floor. The kitchen had gadgets and machines with their electric switches and little green numbers glowing and blinking. I could hardly imagine spending the rest of my days with that knowledge rattling about in my head, never to be spoken of.