Autumn Imago

by Bryan Wiggins

  I put my paddle behind me, giving it a sharp twist to steer for the pond’s eastern shore. Suddenly, I was terrified of crossing that spot, the place that still trembled with the ripples of my sister’s death.

  I looked away from the water, and my eyes lighted on the red maple I’d been looking for, now leafless. I traced its thin skeleton and saw the others soon to follow within the trees that flamed onshore. I saw the impossible addition of tiny lace flakes that would somehow cover the whole world in white. I felt the ice embrace the pool of tears I paddled across, heard its crackling race across the land to encase every dead leaf, every twig, every stone.

  Let it come, I thought. Let it come.

  37

  The Weight

  If the cabin hadn’t been dark, the thing might still be sitting there. But when I fumbled the fresh batteries for my headlamp and one of them rolled under my bunk, my hand found the bundle I’d stashed a week before. I slid it out and undid the bungee cords wound around the tarp, then unwrapped the package to reveal its cargo. As my fingers brushed the strings, the soft chime of Tommy’s guitar echoed in the room.

  I’d forgotten about it completely. Tommy’s girlfriend had handed it to me without a case, so I’d swaddled it before tucking it into the back of my truck. It rode from there to camp, where I hoped to pawn it off on Kim. I never thought I’d have the chance to deliver it to Tommy myself.

  I was happy to give it to him, but as I walked outside, I worried about the consequences of that small favor. The simplest things I set out to do for my family seemed to have a way of getting complicated quickly: A ride down the falls ended in a broken finger. A climb up Doubletop pissed everyone off and rewarded me with a view of the mess of my sister’s marriage. And a quick trip home to help my mother earned me the long goose chase that began in Pennsylvania and was still going on. I hoisted the guitar higher as I walked so I could get an arm under it. The thing felt heavier than I remembered.

  It was lighter outside the cabin, and when I reached the end of the path through the woods I found the twilit field brighter still. I glanced at the parking lot and saw that my family still hadn’t returned from the ER. Tommy sat on the top of the picnic table, wreathed in a stream of cigarette smoke, staring into the woods. His head cocked when I came into his line of vision, and when he saw what I was carrying, his mouth popped open so fast his cigarette flipped out and fell to the ground. By the time I stood before him he had scrambled down to retrieve it, but the expression on his face hadn’t changed.

  “No way,” he whispered, as I held the guitar out to him. “I never, ever, thought I’d see this again.”

  “Kelly said she got it out of hock with her first paycheck.”

  He took the guitar. “Thanks, Paul,” he said, his voice thick.

  He started to put the strap on but couldn’t get it over his head. “Somebody pretty small must’ve had it,” he said, struggling to loosen it. Finally, he gave up and shimmied his head and arm through the tight opening. It hung a bit high on his chest, but he still managed to play. He sat down on the picnic table and strummed it a couple of times before tuning the strings.

  Robert and the rest of the crew got back from their ambulance run to Millinocket a few minutes later. Robert walked straight by us without a glance and disappeared into Sentinel. Aaron held his hand up in the air as he approached, showing us the two fingers banded in a buddy splint. Aida followed, trailed by my mother and Kim, who was still moving slowly on her healing ankle. I saw that it was now strapped into a white plastic brace that cupped the back half of her foot.

  “That’s impressive,” said Tommy, pointing to Aaron’s fingers with the neck of his guitar. “That too,” he continued, nodding at Kim’s newly outfitted foot.

  “Avulsion fracture for Aaron,” Kim said, wincing as she sat down at the table to stretch out her leg. “His doc saw me limping and talked me into an X-ray too. No fracture, but I tore the ligament. I’ll be off the road for a while.”

  “What’s an avulsion fracture?” asked Tommy.

  “A bone break that pulls a piece of tendon or ligament off,” I answered. “Bad?” I asked, turning to Kim.

  “No, the bone didn’t stray far. But setting the finger wasn’t a lot of fun for Aaron.” She turned to him, “Speaking of which, you had a pretty rough day, honey. How about hitting the hay?”

  “I slept the whole way here,” he said, his eyes on Tommy’s guitar. “Do you know any songs?”

  Tommy smiled. “Oh, one or two.”

  “Can I see that?” asked Mara, setting her needlepoint basket on the edge of the picnic table and pointing to his guitar. Tommy shimmied over and pulled the instrument away from his body as far as the strap would allow. Mara touched it like a holy relic, her fingertips barely making contact with its worn, smooth face. “I remember the night your father brought that home,” she said softly. “It was just a few days before Christmas. We were tight on money—well, we were always tight, I guess. But when your dad showed your present to me, he looked so pleased I just didn’t have the heart to complain about the cost.”

  Tommy picked up the guitar and began strumming and humming. I hadn’t heard him play since he was a kid. He’d gotten good. Really good. He worked his way through snatches of a few tunes I knew and others I didn’t. Finally, he looked up and smiled at Aaron. “Here’s a good one,” he said, beginning to strum. “It’s called ‘The Weight.’” After finishing the familiar intro, he began to sing the folk rock classic Robbie Robertson had penned for the Band.

  “Can you wait a minute?” Aida asked.

  “Sure,” Tommy replied. He kept strumming, improvising variations on the melody while she ran across the field and into the cabin. Some of the other campers heard the music and moved closer to listen in. A few stood around us, and the rest took seats at the picnic table next to ours while Tommy strummed and smiled. Aaron’s eyes stayed fixed on Tommy’s hands. He had the concentrated expression of someone trying to figure out a magic trick.

  Aida popped back out a minute later, and when Tommy saw the violin in her hand, his eyes widened. He worked the melody through another time, slowing it down a bit to help Aida pick it out on her violin. By the time he had completed the refrain, she had it, and he resumed the tempo and started singing the next verse.

  I looked over to see that Robert now stood among the small crowd around us, his big plastic mug in his hand. He didn’t look happy, but he had the good grace to let Tommy have his moment center stage.

  Aida’s violin was the perfect counterpoint to the guitar, its high, sweet notes floating above the deeper chords Tommy played. By the time they reached the last chorus, more than one of the crowd joined in.

  There was a smattering of applause and a couple of “nice job”s from the audience.

  “But what’s it about?” asked Aaron.

  “Oh,” said Tommy, “it’s about a guy who goes to do a favor for someone. But everyone he meets wants something from him.” He turned from Aaron to give me a long look before continuing. “He just wants to do his duty and get on with his life, but he can’t get free of everyone’s expectations. That’s the burden he carries. That’s the weight.”

  38

  Blood Brothers

  Tommy looked around at the small audience he’d drawn. Most had stayed put after his song, hoping for another. He strummed a few more chords before turning to Aaron, who still sat transfixed by the guitar. “You know,” Tommy said, “two people is a duet. But three, well, that’s a band. I have a harmonica in my backpack. Wanna give it a try?”

  Aaron was up in a flash. “Yes!” he said, turning and running toward the cabin.

  Tommy jumped to his feet. He stood behind the table, hemmed in by my mother and Kim on either side.

  “Wait, Aaron, I’ll get it!” he yelled, struggling to shrug out of the guitar strap.

  “I know where your backpack is,” Aaron called behind him without stopping. “I saw it under your bunk.”

  “It’s not in t
he box, it’s in the side pock—” Tommy began, but Kim yelled over him.

  “Aaron, watch that finger!”

  When the cabin door banged shut, Tommy was still wrestling to take the guitar off. By the time he had managed to work himself free, Aaron was running back with a bright red box in his hand.

  “Got it!” he said, placing it on the center of the picnic table.

  I glimpsed the “Echo” brand name on the lid before Tommy’s hand shot across the table. “That’s not it—” he said, but he was too late. Aaron flipped the lid a second before Tommy’s hand reached it. The thing that rolled out pointed like a thin, ugly finger right at my brother: a hypodermic needle.

  No one moved. No one said a word. In the space of that silence the shrill trill of a red squirrel floated down from the trees. Everything that followed happened very fast.

  “You son of a bitch,” whispered Robert, walking toward the table, his fists balled, eyes on my brother. “You bring that shit up here, in front of my kids—”

  “Robert, wait,” said Kim, struggling to her feet.

  Robert didn’t wait. He grabbed the guitar and yanked it from Tommy’s hands. Tommy froze, but not for long. When he saw Robert’s hands slide up to settle at the top of the guitar’s neck, he had a pretty good idea of what was coming. So did the people sitting at the next picnic table over, who disappeared when Tommy took a few steps their way. Robert followed, swinging the guitar behind his back and raising it high. Tommy turned around in time to see it arc through the air before he dove to the ground. The instrument’s base just cleared his head, hitting the edge of the picnic table with a deafening crack. It had turned during its descent, sending the sharp corner of the table straight through its side. The impact lodged the board deep. Robert grunted as he struggled to free the guitar, placing a foot on the table’s seat and pulling the instrument from side to side. After a few seconds, it came loose with a pop. The long neck was still in one piece, but the rest of it dangled from the steel strings. Robert stood looking down for a moment, then swung the whole mess at the table again. He kept bashing it, swinging the remnants till they split and fell away.

  I was relieved to see him taking his anger out on the table instead of Tommy, until the last of the wrecked remains of the guitar finally fell free. Then Robert looked from the long, splintered club in his hand to where Tommy lay on the grass. It was the look I caught on his face that finally got me moving. As Robert strode to where my brother lay on the ground, I saw that he was smiling.

  Four years of high school football burns some muscle memory into a person. I kept my body low as I charged, driving my shoulder into Robert’s hip as I wrapped my arms around him and launched us into the air. My grip shifted, and I rose higher over his body before we hit the ground together. I heard an “oof” as my full weight came down on his chest. I tried to regain my grip, but Robert scissored his legs and scooted away from me on the grass. He was up an instant later. I watched him scan the field for a second before I realized he was looking for the goddamned club.

  I had taken three steps forward when I heard my name. Tyler was running toward us from the ranger’s cabin. Turning to look was a mistake. An instant later the world disappeared in a shower of stars as a burst of white pain exploded in my left eye. It was followed by another as my teeth slammed together. I stepped back, reeling, my mouth filling with the bright, coppery taste of blood. I staggered in place for a second, shaking my head to clear my vision. I looked up to see two Roberts advancing, blinked, then saw something flash from the corner of my eye. I ducked, and when he swung again I was ready, sidestepping his fist before driving my own past his extended arm and into his face. He staggered back and wiped his chin, smearing the thick stream of blood gushing under his nose. Tyler had a hand on his arm then, but it was the noise behind us that stopped the show.

  A deafening blast made us hunch and put our hands to our ears. Cassie appeared in the middle of our sorry group, a compressed air horn raised high in her hand. She was out of uniform, but everything from her stance to her expression looked very official.

  Robert looked past her and toward me, set his jaw, and took a step. She hit the horn again, freezing us for a second time.

  “You,” she said, pointing at Robert, “are out of here. Now.” Robert narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, but Cassie spoke first.

  “I have a gun and a badge in that truck over there,” she said, pointing the horn toward the parking lot. Robert shut his mouth, but his eyes stayed hard. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork I’ll have to fill out if I draw that gun,” Cassie continued. “I hate paperwork. You can save us both a lot of trouble if you clear out right now.”

  “You have no idea what’s going on,” Robert said, turning to point at Tommy, who had finally gotten to his feet. “That miserable punk brought heroin into your park. It’s right there,” he said, waving at the picnic table. I risked a glance, but Cassie kept her eyes on Robert. I was staring at the table’s empty surface when I heard her reply.

  “This isn’t a discussion, sir. You have five minutes to grab your gear from your cabin and drive away.”

  “You,” Robert said in a withering voice, “I saw you yesterday morning, sneaking out of his cabin.”

  Cassie laughed. “You just don’t get it, do you?” She said. “Let me make it real simple. You have five minutes to decide whether you’re going home or going to jail.” She looked at her watch. “Oops, make that four.”

  Robert may have been homicidal, but he wasn’t stupid. He walked into Sentinel with Kim hobbling behind. We could hear them arguing while furniture shifted and their feet clomped. He came out a couple of minutes later with his two large duffels swung over his arms, Kim standing in the doorway, crying.

  He gave me a long look as he approached but never broke his stride. The bottom half of his face was caked in dry blood. He turned and spat a bright, red glob of it in my direction as he passed by. “You and your junkie brother can say goodbye to my kids,” he said. “When they leave this park you can be damned sure you’re never gonna see them again.”

  39

  Wail Call

  I watched the angry red glow of Robert’s taillights disappear and turned to Cassie and Tyler. The three of us stood alone in the middle of the deserted field.

  “I’m going to have to call this in,” Tyler said, taking a step toward the cabin.

  “No, Tyler,” Cassie said, putting a hand on his arm, “you don’t.”

  He turned to look at me instead. “Tell me, Paul, what would you do? You’re on duty, there’s a bloody brawl in the middle of the campground. It’s witnessed by a dozen guests. There’s a report that one camper is in felony possession of a controlled dangerous substance.”

  “I’d call it in,” I told him. I risked a look at Cassie. She glared at me before turning back to Tyler.

  “This is my call, Tyler, not yours”—she tipped her head toward me—“or his. The fight’s over, the perp’s gone, and I don’t see any evidence of drugs.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” I said.

  “Paul, wait—” Cassie said.

  I didn’t. I walked across the dark field and caught a glimpse of the heavy blanket of clouds over the pond. The last rays of the sun burned the edge of each blue-gray puff deep crimson. The smell of earth and dead leaves was heavy, and the air was already damp with the promise of a storm.

  I banged Sentinel’s door open and stopped. Aida and Aaron sat frozen in place by the cold woodstove, their eyes on me. I could hear Kim crying on the back porch as my mother tried to comfort her.

  “I’m sorry” was all I could manage before looking around to find Tommy’s bunk. His gray backpack was on it, and I went through it quickly, unzipping every pouch and pocket before dumping it upside down on the bed. When I saw his headlamp, I put it on, pulled up the mattress, and searched under the bunk and the ones around it.

  “Do you know where Tommy is?” I asked the kids when I was done.

 
; They exchanged a glance but kept silent. Mara opened the back door and stepped into the room with an answer. “He’s in the library,” she said, “but what you’re looking for isn’t there.” She walked over to the card table by the stove, reached her hand into her needlepoint basket, and withdrew Tommy’s red harmonica box. I held her gaze as I took it, shook my head, and headed out the door.

  ***

  The gas lamp was lit in the library. Through its soft glow I saw Tommy, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, gazing out on the dark pond. He didn’t turn around when he heard me coming, even when I marched over to his chair and dropped the harmonica case on the table in front of him.

  “This is as good as anywhere to shoot up.” I said. “If you’re lucky, maybe you can OD right here, where our sister died.”

  I saw him stiffen, but he didn’t turn around.

  “I envy you, Paul,” he said. “It must be nice to be so certain, to go through life with such clarity—always knowing how the world works, why people do what they do.”

  “I really don’t care why you’re still using, Tommy.” I said.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then what’s this?” I asked, pointing at the case on the table.

  “A mistake.”

  I ran my tongue through my mouth, probing the chewed flesh on the inside of my cheek, which I’d bitten when Robert’s fist hit my jaw. I touched the tender skin under my swollen eye. When it throbbed in response, the full weight of my exhaustion hit me.

  I walked around the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from my brother. When I let out a long, slow breath, Tommy finally turned to face me. In the soft light of the library, his blond hair looked almost white. I could see the old man he might one day become. If he lived that long.

  “Listen,” Tommy said, “remember the mailbox I told you about, the one at the Heavenly Arms?”