The Shortest Way Home

by Juliette Fay

  Bodie had the boys line up by the picnic table to make themselves sandwiches. Ivan’s only had grape jelly in it.

  “You’re gonna be really hungry if that’s all you’re bringing,” warned Bodie.

  “That other stuff’s disgusting! It’s highly processed,” insisted Ivan, as he watched Bodie make himself a ham, turkey, Swiss cheese, and potato chip sandwich.

  “Least I’ll make it to the top without fainting,” said Bodie. “But don’t worry—if you pass out, I’ll just fold you up and put you in my pack.” He raised a hand and another kid slapped it.

  They filled their water bottles, packed up their day packs, and got back into the car. After about twenty minutes they were on a dirt road, rocks spitting out from under the tires. Sean looked back to check on Kevin. He was staring out the window again, but this time he didn’t look as if he were being hauled off to jail. His eyes glittered with the sunlight filling the car.

  CHAPTER 17

  The hike started off easily, and some of the boys raced ahead. Frank told Jonathan and Bodie to stop the group. He murmured something to the two older boys, and when they started again, Jonathan was at the front, setting a brisk but maintainable pace, Bodie at the back keeping the stragglers moving. Sean and Frank hiked a few paces behind Bodie.

  The trail grew steeper. At some points they had to use their hands to help pull themselves up. Sean was a little worried about Frank. He was older, carrying some extra pounds, and his breathing seemed labored. Sean began to remind himself about CPR compression rounds.

  “How you doing?” said Frank when they stopped to catch their breath about halfway up.

  How’m I doing? thought Sean. How’re you doing? “Good,” he said. “Really gets the old ticker pumping, huh?”

  “Yeah. Seriously, though, if you need a break, just take one,” said Frank in that flat way he had. “You done much hiking?” he said. “You’re looking a little pale.”

  “Yeah, it’s that pasty Irish skin of mine,” Sean quipped to hide his annoyance. “I always look like I just came out of hiding.”

  Frank gave the smallest possible chuckle in response. “Okay,” he said. But he didn’t seem completely convinced.

  They reached the summit to find most of the boys digging through their day packs for snacks and water. Ivan said, “We made it!”

  “No, we didn’t,” said Kevin, unwrapping a granola bar. The whole crowd of boys seemed to stop and look. It was the first time Kevin had spoken loudly enough for them all to hear. “This is just Round Mountain,” he explained, looking a little uncomfortable with all the attention. “It’s on the way to Frissell.”

  “He’s right,” Jonathan confirmed. “Eat your snack, Ivan.”

  Ivan dropped down next to Kevin and pulled out a bag of pretzels. They didn’t say anything to each other, but when Ivan had gone through about three-quarters of his pretzels, he held the bag out to Kevin. “Want the rest?” he said. Kevin took it and said, “Thanks.”

  The trail wound down off Round Mountain and into the valley between the two summits. Soon they were climbing straight up the southeast slope of Mount Frissell, the troop’s pace slackening to account for the added difficulty. Sean climbed behind Frank, hoping the stocky man wouldn’t slip and fall back onto him. But Frank was keeping up with the boys, and Sean found he had to struggle more than he’d expected to keep pace. He was ashamed to admit that without the daily exercise of lifting or holding down patients, carrying supplies, and constantly being on his feet, he wasn’t in the best of shape.

  They reached the top of their climb and took a little side trail to the summit of Mount Frissell, in Massachusetts. Then they hiked until they came to what looked to be a little greenish copper pipe sticking out of the ground. The plaque around it said ­MASSACHUSETTS CONNECTICUT STATE LINE, 1803, 1906. The boys each took turns balancing on the end of the little pipe.

  “This is it,” Sean murmured to Kevin. “Your first highest point.”

  Kevin grinned up at him. “Thanks for taking me,” he said.

  “Glad I could be part of it.” And he was. He was proud of Kevin, and even a little envious—the boy had goals, which was more than he could say for himself at the moment.

  The rest of the kids were getting bored and started back onto the trail.

  “We’re leaving?” Kevin looked slightly panicked.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t have any, like . . . proof.” He looked around anxiously, as if there were something he could take with him that would serve as evidence of his accomplishment.

  Frank hadn’t seemed to be paying them any attention, but suddenly he was in front of them with his BlackBerry. “How about a picture?” he said. “You get in there, too, Uncle Sean.” His phone camera made its artificial snapping noise, Frank studying the picture each time until he was satisfied. “That’s a beaut,” he said. Sean gave him Deirdre’s e-mail address, and Frank sent the picture to her. It was the only way Sean could think of to take possession of it.

  He looked at the picture in the tiny screen of Frank’s BlackBerry. Kevin was grinning like he’d just won the lottery, his heathery green eyes twinkling with satisfaction. Sean glanced at himself and was a little taken aback. He was pale. And thin—his eye sockets seemed just a little too big for his eyes. There were threads of silver in the auburn hair by his temples. He hadn’t seen a picture of himself in a long time and never spent much time in the mirror. He was middle-aged. There was no doubt about it.

  And yet, despite all the obvious wear and tear, in the picture he looked happy—a proud accomplice to Kevin’s momentous achievement.

  The highest place. One down, forty-nine to go.

  * * *

  Back at the state park, Frank puttered around their campsite, setting up a camp stove, pulling things out of a cooler. He declined Sean’s repeated offers to help, so Sean sat at the picnic table and watched the goings-on at the boys’ campsite. Jonathan was supervising dinner preparation, while Bodie worked on “advancement.”

  “Who still needs cooking to get their Tenderfoot rank?” Bodie bellowed. Two boys raised their hands, and he shooed them over to Jonathan. He turned to Kevin. “You wanna be a scout?”

  “Yeah,” said Kevin nervously. “I guess.”

  “Okay, it’s totally easy. Get your dad to get the forms from my dad. He has them in a folder in the car. Then come back to me.” Sean saw Kevin flinch at the mistake and felt the same minor shock wave ripple through his own nervous system. Kevin mumbled ­something—Sean assumed it was a correction about their ­relationship—but Bodie didn’t seem to notice as he turned to help another scout with a mess of rope the boy was struggling with.

  Kevin approached. “Bodie says you have to fill out the forms.”

  Sean leaned forward. “Kev,” he mumured. “You really want to do this? Because I don’t have to fill out any forms unless you’re definitely joining the troop.”

  Kevin chewed at the inside of his cheek. “I can quit if I hate it, right?”

  “Yeah, but you shouldn’t join unless you actually like it.”

  “I do,” he said. “I like it. Most of it.”

  “What don’t you like?”

  “The latrines. They’re disgusting.”

  Sean laughed. “That’s it? That’s the only thing you don’t like?”

  Kevin thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s pretty much it.”

  “Just pretend you’re Bear Grylls, and pee in your water bottle,” Sean teased. “That’ll solve half your problem, right there.”

  Kevin laughed and gave him a little punch. It was the first time Sean could remember Kevin making voluntary physical contact.

  Frank got the forms and a Boy Scout Handbook. “Take this over to Bodie and he’ll tell you what to do.” For the next half hour, every time
Sean glanced over, Kevin was studying the book, murmuring to himself, or reciting something to Bodie. They worked on square knots. Then there was a safety pamphlet he had to go through with Sean. And that was it. He was a scout.

  At the campfire after dinner, they all cheered him, and gave him left-handed handshakes, representing friendship with the hand nearest to their hearts. Then the real fun began.

  “Who’s got a joke?” called Jonathan; as the senior boy on the trip he served as emcee.

  A boy got up. “Two cannibals are having dinner,” he said. “One says to the other, ‘I really hate my mother-in-law.’ The other says, ‘Relax. Have the potatoes.’ ”

  They all laughed and heckled him. “Yum!” someone yelled.

  Another boy got up. “A bear goes into a bar,” he began. “No, wait! A bear goes into a gas station . . .” He started to giggle. “And he says to the guy . . . he says to the guy . . .” The boy began to laugh so hard he couldn’t finish the joke. Half the boys began to laugh just because he couldn’t stop laughing.

  After a few more mostly horrible jokes, the boys performed the skits they’d practiced while Kevin had been studying his Scout Handbook.

  Ivan got up and began to pace back and forth with his hand in the air. “Brains for sale, brains for sale,” he called in a fairly believable German accent. “Who vants to buy Albert Einstein’s brain?”

  Another boy approached. “How much?”

  “A sousand dollars!”

  “I’ll take it.” He mimed taking the imaginary brain from Ivan and carrying it away.

  Ivan continued on to sell the brains of Madame Curie, Leonardo da Vinci, and Shaquille O’Neal. Then he said, “Zis is zee most expensive brain of all! It costs a zillion dollars!”

  “Why’s it so expensive?” asked a skit mate.

  “It is zee brain of Bodie Quentzer. It’s never been used!”

  “Bah, ha, ha! . . . Bodieeee! . . . Good one!” they yelled and poked Bodie, who took it with good-natured fury and raised a fist in mock anger, to the great satisfaction of Ivan.

  The skits continued until several of the boys got up to sing a song. “Just a small-town girl . . .” they began. Sean had to laugh. “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” by Journey had come out when he was in high school—about fifteen years before most of these boys had been born. They began to forget the words about halfway through, but he helped them along, belting out the line about rolling the dice, and got a whooping round of applause when it was over.

  Eventually, Jonathan led them in “Scout Vespers,” a quiet song to the tune of “O Christmas Tree.” “Softly falls the light of day, while our campfire fades away . . .” sang the high, low, and changing voices.

  They all got up and did a few last things to get ready for bed. Frank banked the fire.

  “G’night,” Sean said to Kevin.

  “Good job with that song,” Kevin said with a grin. “Can’t wait to tell Aunt Dee.”

  “You better not!” warned Sean.

  “I might have to,” he teased.

  Sean got to the tent before Frank and slid down into his sleeping bag. It had been a long day, but a good one. He rolled onto his side away from the zippered door of the tent, his muscles loosening into the thin pad beneath him, the gratifying feeling of physical exhaustion pulling him toward sleep.

  In the murky hinterland at the edge of slumber, he found himself praying that Kevin was having a good time and that everything was okay at home. That Chrissy Stillman could fix whatever was wrong with George, and that Cormac and Barb would get pregnant soon. He was thankful to have such people to pray for—people he knew, not just random patients for whom his prayers often went unanswered. Then he sent up a prayer for all those who suffer and slipped into the distant forest of unconsciousness.

  * * *

  The ride back to Belham was notably more subdued than the trip to the campground had been the day before. True to their teenagerness, the two older boys slept. Ivan read a book, while the other two played cards. Kevin leaned his head against the window and stared out at the scenery speeding by, face slack with highway hypnosis and mild exhaustion.

  When they arrived at the Scout House, parents collected their weary boys, guiding them into cars as if they suffered temporary ­fatigue-induced blindness.

  “Bye, Kevin!” called Ivan as he disappeared into a minivan.

  “He’s really not that mean,” Kevin confided as Sean started up the Caprice. “He just like . . . talks. Like he says whatever he’s thinking. And he’s super smart so sometimes he sounds like he thinks other people are dumb. It’s weird—he hums when he goes to sleep, like he’s waiting for his brain to slow down or something. Kind of ­annoying.”

  “Hey, I can beat that,” said Sean. “Mr. Quentzer uses a CPAP machine. It’s this face mask attached to a battery-powered motor that pushes air into his mouth, so he can breathe better when he sleeps.”

  “You had a motor in your tent?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll stick with the hummer.”

  Sean laughed. “Good decision.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Pulling into the driveway at Rebecca’s house that evening was like stepping into a time warp of his teenage years. Everything was exactly as Sean remembered it, down to the overgrown rhododendrons and the seasick-green color of the shingles.

  They must have painted it in the past twenty years, thought Sean. And they picked that same pukey color again.

  Rebecca answered the door. “Hey, it’s Smokey the Bear,” she teased.

  “Complete with a whole new set of camping-related aches and pains.”

  Inside, the same oversized brown leather couches crowded the living room, the same heavy brocade curtains shut out what little light slipped around the edges of the rhododendrons. Sean didn’t say a word, but Rebecca responded as if he had. “It’s like being trapped in a Groundhog Day of my childhood,” she said, sighing.

  He looked at her. She shook her head. “They like it this way, and it’s their house.”

  “They come back for the summer?” he asked.

  “No. They actually never come back. They think Florida is the Promised Land, but with better amenities. But it’s their house,” she repeated. “They don’t like to change anything.”

  Sean flopped down onto an enormous leather recliner. “I’ve sat in worse,” he said.

  She slipped into the corner of the couch nearest his chair. “Way worse, I’m sure.”

  “But it’s not about comfort, is it?”

  “No.” She sighed again and muttered, “I really have to get out of here sometime soon.”

  “The holding pen versus jumping-off point problem. What’s stopping you?”

  “Money, for one thing.”

  This surprised him. He paid eighty dollars for an hour of massage. Admittedly he didn’t have much experience with what a normal paycheck should look like, but that sounded like a lot to him. “Tree of Life doesn’t cover the bills?” he asked.

  She let out a disgusted little hiss. “I know—eighty bucks, right? You’d think I was rolling in dough. But Eden doesn’t give us much of a cut.”

  Sean thought she was making a play on words, but she explained, “Eden’s the owner. Her real name’s Edna, but she changed it to Eden when she came up with ‘Tree of Life’ for the spa name. It’s a chain now. She’s got about ten of them spread out all over New England.” A little play of mirth came over her face. “She drives a lime-green Mercedes. Specially painted.”

  “Come on,” Sean scoffed.

  “I kid you not.”

  “Sounds like a piece of work.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. Missy hates her. Apparently she comes in for free massages and doesn’t even tip!”

  “Why don’t you go somewhere else
?”

  “It’s steady. She offers health insurance, which most places don’t. It’s a bare bones policy, but if I come down with malaria or something, I don’t have to pay the whole tab.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s just inertia.” She glanced up at him. “I guess we should get going.”

  “What did you do before you went to massage school?” he asked, anxious to get to the massage but somehow even more interested in the story of how she’d found an occupation she was so good at.

  “I was a copy editor. At the time I was doing medical texts, and I was editing a book on neurology that had some really interesting sections on alternative treatment. The massage thing hit me like a bolt. I started reading books about it.” She grinned. “I actually started by practicing on my grandmother. She was the one who pushed me to go to school for it.”

  “She was your jumping-off point. She must be really proud of you.”

  “She was,” said Rebecca, a soft sadness creeping into her smile. “She died a couple of years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” He reached out over the expanse of the chair’s cracked leather arm to squeeze her hand, a reflex from when news of a loved one’s death was a daily occurrence. Rebecca looked down at his freckled hand covering her olive-toned fingers. He withdrew it, feeling suddenly uncertain.

  “So,” he said, searching for something to say. “You must be pretty exhausted by the end of the day, with all that physical labor.”

  “Yes and no. I mean, it’s work, and it can be tiring. But it’s also very . . . it’s good for me. I’ve gotten a lot of clarity doing massage.” She started to shift in her seat as if to rise. But Sean stayed put, hoping that she would settle back and say more.

  “When you’re treating patients,” she asked, “do you ever pick up on their mood, or their . . . sense of things? Do you ever feel what’s happening below the surface?”