“We’re not done talking about this, Zac Mawson.” Sam pokes a finger at my chest. And in that moment, it’s like she knows exactly who she’s supposed to be, the way my dad knows he’s meant to grow pot, or Big Bugger knows he was born to rule the clearing.
•
I’m still feeling off balance by the time my art class rolls around. And Mr. Pires’ latest assignment doesn’t help. We’re supposed to make a collage of life’s important symbols, then cover it in cellophane, which will force us to draw the crinkling of light and the slight distortions that the plastic creates.
Under my cellophane, I have a tube of lipstick, donated by Sam. I’ve added a scrap of bright green fabric to represent Lucas’s jacket. Ever since our trip to the druid, something’s shifted between us. We’re no longer alphabetical acquaintances, but actual friends. So there’s green in my collage.
Then there’s a bunch of paintbrushes fanned below the plastic, the tip of each one dipped in a different color. Cyan, vermilion, umber. I’ve added a lichen-mottled branch, a tree mushroom, a fern tip and a silver key like the one for my truck.
The sketching part of the assignment is going well for me. I can see the lines and shadows that make the cellophane transparent yet visible. I can draw the straight or blurred edges of the objects underneath.
But my symbols make no sense. They’re the collection of someone with multiple personalities. They’re objective proof of the clash between my life at home and life at school. I’ve been cruising along as if I can keep juggling both, but school’s ending in a few weeks.
When I tear my work in half and crush the paper into the recycling bin, Mr. Pires glances up from behind his own easel. The kids around me stop moving their pencils. They don’t say anything, though, as I rearrange my things and begin a new sketch.
I don’t look left or right at any of them until the bell rings. Then, as they pack up, I shred my second attempt. Destroying it is somewhat satisfying.
Once the room has emptied, I corner Mr. Pires.
On his easel, there’s a half-finished abstract in rich greens and blues. It’s impressive enough to distract me.
“Are you giving yourself assignments, too?”
“Actually, I have a show. A gallery show in Vancouver next month. Part of a summer exhibit.”
I’m surprised into momentary silence. I somehow thought Mr. Pires existed only for the education of his students. The idea of him showing his own art seems like cheating, somehow.
“Teaching isn’t enough for you?”
He folds his arms and leans back against the counter.
“They’re two sides of the same thing,” he says eventually. “Teaching and exhibiting are both about sharing my viewpoints.”
“Your views about art.”
“My views about the world.”
I look at his canvas again. It makes me feel as if I’ve jumped from a cliff into the deepest lake water. It’s the exact opposite of the murals inside our drying shed. There, everything’s hidden. Those are gray charcoal lines in the semi-darkness, and the only people who will ever see them are Mom, Dad and me. No one will ever walk around to view them from different angles, or talk about them with their friends, or think about their possible interpretations.
This painting of Mr. Pires, it grabs your eye. Invites everyone to look.
I glance back at my own heap of crumpled paper at the top of the recycling bin.
“I want to do a portfolio after all,” I blurt.
Mr. Pires throws his hands in the air.
“Now?” he says.
For several months last fall, he and the school counselor tried to convince me to apply to art school. Unsuccessfully.
“The deadlines have passed,” he says.
“But I’ll have it, if I want it in the future.”
Suddenly, I need to have it. I need a collection of work that I’ve created, so that I can know I was once a painter.
When Mr. Pires nods, a wave of relief washes over me.
“You’ve done some good pieces this year, Isaac. Let’s have a look at them, and we’ll see what we can build on.”
I think of the canvases I’ve finished, all of them rolled and stored in plastic tubs under Judith’s bus. It felt too weird to take them home.
“Your timing could be better, but I’m glad you’re going to do it,” Mr. Pires says. “Art school will expose you to all sorts of concepts and techniques we haven’t had time to explore in class.”
That’s too much to think about right now. I just want my paintings photographed and collected into something real.
“It’s possible to become an artist in isolation. But it’s not easy,” Mr. Pires says. “You’ll find that society conspires to tie you to an ordinary life.”
I’m not even part of society, and it’s already conspiring against me. Though not in ordinary ways. Art school isn’t going to happen for me. It’s not even a financial possibility. Though the grow must make some cash, I’ve never seen much of it.
But even while I’m thinking these things, Mr. Pires is talking about landscape art and life-painting classes. I’m imagining studios full of sunlight and talent.
My temporary emotional leave of absence is extending.
“So, we’ll work on a portfolio, and maybe next year you’ll be ready to apply,” Mr. Pires says.
Late nights in coffee shops listening to jazz musicians. Teachers who have been to New York and Paris. Museums and galleries. I nod.
“Bring in the pieces you have at home, and we’ll look through them together,” he says.
More nodding.
Somewhere deep inside me, there are alarm bells and sirens. Roaring helicopter blades. But here, in the art compartment of my brain, I’m already sorting through my canvases, deciding which to choose.
•
I want to tell someone about this new plan, and I pull into the bar parking lot on my way home, knowing Judith’s shift is starting.
I’m about to climb out of the truck when I spot her. She’s in the alley beside the building, with Garrett standing a breath too close. I see his hand close around the bird bones of her wrist.
That’s it. Just his hand. But I don’t like it.
“Judith!” I call her name as I approach.
Garrett drops his hand.
“You just get done school?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Must be almost graduation time.” He shows too many teeth when he grins.
“Well,” he says, turning to Judith, “we should get you to work. I’ll come inside and we can talk.”
Translation: we can talk where your little brother can’t follow.
“Actually, Judith, I need a few minutes.” I give my own fake smile to Garrett. “Family stuff.”
He raises his hands in mock defeat. “I get it. Who am I to stand between a woman and her family?” He makes two little guns with his fingers and takes a smarmy one-two shot at Judith. “I’ll catch you later.”
I don’t consider myself a violent person. But the urge to punch this guy is almost irresistible. I find myself gritting my teeth as I watch him walk away.
“I’m late, Isaac,” Judith says. “What do you need?”
What do I need? I was going to tell her about my portfolio, but now I’m not so sure. She’ll jump to conclusions, for one thing. Also, it’s hard to think about art when I can still smell Garrett, mixed with overripe dumpster fumes.
My sister gives him a little wave as he drives away.
“You know what? It’ll wait. You get to work,” I say.
“You interrupted me for no reason?”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
I wait until she’s inside before I start the truck again. Then I head home, fantasizing about ways to get rid of Garrett more permanently. I’d love to see him m
eet Walt one day…
•
The makers of water pumps don’t consider the challenges of mountain run-off. Every year, the filter in our pump gets clogged with mud and leaves and disgusting worm-like creatures. I’m in charge of dismantling the box, cleaning it and piecing it back together. I have to stand in the creek to detach the hoses, and even this close to summer, the water’s cold enough to turn my hands purple.
Jobs like this used to be better when there were two of us.
When I cleaned the pump last spring, Judith was still living on the grow. As I stood ankle-deep in water, she watched from the bank.
“I’ve signed up for a bartender’s course,” she said.
“Need a taste-tester?”
“The hotel’s even going to pay for it. My boss says he considers it an investment.” She was already waitressing there on weekends.
I stopped sloshing and peered at her. “What exactly is he investing in?”
“My skills, idiot!” she said, leaning down to scoop a small tsunami toward me. “Get your head out of the gutter. I’m trying to tell you something serious.”
“You want to be a bartender?” I knew that wasn’t it. I was only delaying the announcement.
“Not forever.” She lowered her voice. “I want to get out of here. I’m going to rent a room for a while, then get my own place. I can work for a few years and save for school.”
Maybe between other siblings this would have been normal conversation. For us it felt more like treason. Judith had to stop and take a deep breath before she even said it.
“I’m going to live in town.”
I let out a long slow whistle.
It isn’t that Dad is opposed to town, as a concept. When we were kids, the whole family would go a couple of times a year. Dad would head to the machine shop or the farm supply. He’d drop Mom at Creston’s mini-department store on the way, so she could stock up on cotton socks and boxer shorts and quilted plaid shirts.
That was town.
Dad can’t believe anyone would want to live there. He found his God in the wilderness, and he can’t imagine Him living anywhere else.
Judith collapsed on the creek bank to watch me work.
“I can’t stay here, Isaac,” she said, a note of pleading in her voice.
It wasn’t me she had to convince, though I’d miss her.
“Is it because of the bears?”
“I just need my own space for a while.”
At the creek that afternoon, I assumed she was still in the planning stages. I thought I’d have a few weeks to turn her ideas over in my head, like creek-tumbled stones, checking them for rough edges.
But Judith didn’t give me time for that. Even before we talked, she’d already packed her things. She broke the news to Mom and Dad at dinner that night, in what turned out to be a short but loud conversation. Then she set off by herself down the trail.
Dad went after her the next day and got her set up in the bus. Maybe gave her some money, even. But that doesn’t mean he agreed with her. He barely spoke for days after she left.
I finish mucking out the filter, finally. As I’m fitting it back into place, my most recent picture of Judith flashes in my head. Garrett’s hand wrapped around her wrist.
I sink the hoses back into the creek with a little more force than necessary. Then I step onto the bank and take a deep breath.
I know what I’d do if I were Dad. I’d drag a few carcasses under Garrett’s tree and leave him to the bears.
9
I wake at dawn on Friday to the sound of helicopter blades. Instantly I’m alert, my heart racing. I react to helicopters like other people must react to fire alarms.
I track the sound until it passes overhead, going north. Then I pull myself from the covers, shivering in the morning chill. I duck from the lean-to into the kitchen, where Dad’s got coffee brewing.
“Logging chopper?”
He grunts. I can’t tell if it’s agreement or worry.
“Seen anything unusual lately?” he asks. I guess that means worry.
Walt sits on the edge of his bed at the side of the room, cursing. He’s wearing pajama pants with a slit in the front and his junk’s escaped. Dangling like wrinkled fruit.
“Depends what you mean by unusual,” I say.
Dad’s eyes snap up. Then he sees where I’m looking and grunts again.
“I talked to the druid.” I cross the room to help Walt while averting my eyes at the same time. “The one in the campground.”
Any efforts Dad has made have been unsuccessful. Amir is still on his “journey.”
“Fucking prick,” Walt mutters. He’s halfway up now, one arm still on the cot for support. I haul him upright. Getting him ready for the day is a process sometimes.
“He seemed harmless,” I say. “He’s looking for his place in the universe.”
“Well, it’s not here. Did you tell him that?”
Walt saves me from answering. “Fucking universe.” Then he demands, “Did you hear that chopper? Where the hell’s my rifle?”
We’re so used to ignoring Walt that it’s a shock when he spits out full sentences.
Dad moves quickly to distract him. Walt’s soon sitting at the table with a coffee and a couple of fried eggs in front of him. Mom hid the ammunition after he shot at Judith and me, but there’s no sense taking chances.
“Keep your eyes open,” Dad tells me. I assume he’s referring to the choppers, not the druid. The police may have downscaled their war on drugs, but we’re still technically illegal up here, especially since we’re growing on land that’s not our own.
I know the signs to watch for. We might spot surveillance cars at the logging road entrance as the police track anyone who accesses the property. We might see footprints on the trail. There might even be cameras. Dad’s not sure if that possibility is real or rumored. They’d have to be pretty serious to start tying cameras to trees.
Dad knows people whose grow was busted. He says they had no warning. A chopper appeared overhead and police officers rappelled down to the crop. It was a specially funded program that summer, apparently. Choppers equipped with infrared. Customs officers and police working together. That was all before pot became more acceptable, but still…
I scoop a fried egg onto a piece of toast and shove it in my mouth on the way out the door.
“I’ll take a look around before I head to town.”
Dad nods. He stares into his coffee cup like it might be a crystal ball.
Outside, Big Bugger is sauntering away from a still-steaming shit pile. Right beside our steps.
“You did that on purpose.”
He doesn’t turn at my voice. Just waddles his big ass toward the clearing, as if he’s king of the mountain.
“King of shit,” I mutter, as I grab the shovel from the side of the cabin. I have to scrub my hands in the creek afterward, in case the smell clings to me.
I don’t check the bottom of the trail for footprints. Big Bugger distracted me and I don’t remember until I’m turning onto the lake road, and then it seems too late to drive back.
What I’d like to do is forget the grow for a little while. It’s a teacher-development day, and I’m supposed to pick up Sam and Lucas this morning.
“Can I help you?”
At Sam’s front door, I find myself face to face with her dad, who looks even more intimidating with a shadow of stubble. Sam skids to a stop behind him.
“I’m Isaac. We met once…before.” I manage to stick out my hand, which he ignores.
“I’m taking Sam for breakfast?” It turns into a question because I’m on one side of him and Sam’s on the other.
Sam tries to duck beneath his elbow. “Bye, Dad!”
“Wait just a minute.” He grabs her arm, draws her back inside and closes the doo
r in my face.
I shift from foot to foot on the stoop, not sure if this is the end of our breakfast plans. From inside, I can hear the low rumble of his voice and the increasingly loud pitch of hers.
Finally, Sam flings open the door and grabs my hand.
“C’mon,” she says. “We’re going.”
I don’t wait around to see whether her dad agrees.
“What did he say?” I ask, once we’re a few blocks away.
Sam grins. “He called you a shitrat.”
“A shitrat!” I don’t know what a shitrat is, exactly, but I’m offended.
She leans over to nuzzle my neck.
“What did you want him to say? That you’re a sizzling hot stud?”
“That would be uncomfortable.” But then, the entire situation is uncomfortable.
It doesn’t take us long to pick up Lucas and order brunch at the Bigfoot Bistro. Inside, the wood-paneled walls are papered with fifty years of newspaper reports about sasquatch sightings in the woods.
I wonder how many of those sightings can be attributed to Dad, Walt or Big Bugger.
“What are you thinking about, Zac?” Sam nudges me.
“Power-hungry dads.”
Sam looks like she’s going to prod further, but breakfast arrives. Across from me, Lucas devours a heaping plate of eggs and bacon. Sam sits beside me cutting her French toast and strawberries into perfect square-shaped bites.
Beneath the table, her leg presses against mine. Every once in a while she drops a hand to my leg, and her fingernails trace patterns on my inner thigh.
I have no idea what I eat.
Soon we pile into the truck again and drive to the river, where we lie on our backs on the gravel bank like digesting anacondas. Lucas is wearing his green jacket, which adds to the effect. When I tell him he looks like a giant snake, Sam giggles.
“I love this jacket,” Lucas protests.
Sam laughs harder. “You’re like Mr. Squeaky Clean,” she says. “Like a guy cheerleader.”
“All part of my plan.” Lucas grins.
The sun climbs high enough to sparkle off the water. After a while, a gang of younger kids tumbles out of the trees. It takes them only seconds to strip to their bathing suits and grab the knotted rope tied to one of the overhanging branches. The first one swings in a wide, whooping arc before plunging into the river. A few more follow, hollering their lungs out.
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