Eyes of the Forest

by April Henry

  Bridget turned on the burner underneath the frying pan and added a tablespoon each of butter and olive oil as the recipe instructed. After the butter melted, she slid in the chopped onion. It landed with a sizzle. Next she used her fingernail to separate four cloves from a head of garlic. Following Ajay’s directions, she hit them with the side of the knife to loosen the skin.

  At the sound of her dad’s voice, she jumped. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

  “What’s all this?” With a grin that didn’t disguise his exhaustion, he set down his suitcase and commuter backpack.

  “I’m making dinner.”

  “By yourself?” He raised an eyebrow. “Is this from one of those meal kit companies?”

  “Stop it!” Bridget shook the knife mock-threateningly. “It’s from a real recipe for butter chicken that Ajay gave me. And I braved the Thanksgiving crowds at a real grocery store to buy the ingredients.” As his expression changed, she added, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” He looked away.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s just the way you move your hands when you talk. You look so like your mom.”

  Bridget’s memories of the time before her mother got sick were tattered and faded. But if she wanted to know what she would look like as an adult, all she had to do was check out the half-dozen framed photographs on the walls. Every year, she and her dad got older and further away from the people they’d been in those photos, while her mother stayed exactly the same. And every year, Bridget looked more like her. The same heart-shaped face. The same snub nose. The same milk-pale skin. The same russet hair that curled at the ends.

  Her dad stepped into the kitchen. “Can I help?”

  “Sure.” She looked back down at the recipe. “Can you grate a couple of tablespoons of ginger?”

  He gave the onions a stir and then peeled the knob of ginger. Bridget hadn’t even known you needed to do that. She began mincing the garlic. “Mince” sounded smaller than “dice,” so she chopped the cloves fine. The savory smell once she added them to the skillet made her mouth flood with water. Next to her, her dad grated shreds of ginger into the pan, making everything smell even better.

  “Sorry I was late.” He sighed. “My second flight was delayed, and then my phone ran out of battery. At least I had a chance to catch up on paperwork.” He called it paperwork, even though it was all on his laptop. “I never dreamed I’d come back to real home cooking.” When her dad traveled, he gravitated toward fast food, which was comforting, familiar, and cheap.

  “I wanted to celebrate you being home on a weekday.” She added a can of tomato puree, two more tablespoons of butter, and even more curry powder to the pan. “It feels like I don’t ever see you anymore.”

  He stiffened. “Do you think I like it, Bridge? I get up in the morning alone, have breakfast alone, drive to my first call alone, go through more calls alone, eat lunch alone, make more calls and then drive back to my hotel at the end of the day. Alone.”

  Bridget stopped stirring. “What do you think my life is like, Dad? It’s mostly like yours, minus the travel.” Most of her friendships had fallen away during the years her mom was sick. After her mom died, her dad started working more hours. Once Bridget turned sixteen, he’d moved from inside sales to a job that kept him away from home for days at a time. Ajay was the first real friend Bridget had made in years.

  And that’s all he seemed to be—a friend. Which was fine.

  He took a deep breath. “Look, Bridge, there’s no easy way to say this. Triple P is sending me down to South America for a month. I’m flying out Sunday, and I won’t be back until Christmas Eve.”

  “What?” It felt like the floor was falling from under her feet. “Are you serious, Dad?” The weekdays always felt so lonely. Sometimes she left the TV on just to hear other people’s voices.

  “If you weren’t you, I would have said no.” He leaned against the refrigerator. “There’s not a lot of teens you could leave that long by themselves. But you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. And this is a chance to get my numbers up.”

  He was always chasing after a better sales number. Triple P gave him monthly, quarterly, and annual targets. In September, one of his biggest clients had declared bankruptcy and he’d missed his monthly target. Badly. That had thrown off his quarterly and annual targets. Now he was running just to stay in place.

  “But South America?” She kept her eyes on the pan as she added the chicken. If she looked at him, she would start crying. “Why do you have to go so far away?”

  “There’s no growth left in the domestic market. Down there, they’re more open to plastics. Here, people think plastic is evil. They don’t care that it doesn’t break or corrode, or that it keeps out microorganisms, or helps food stay fresh and tasty. Now customers say they want unbleached paper, or something recyclable or at least compostable. And all these ecofriendly, save-the-planet companies are out there selling reusable containers, or glass or ceramics or that beeswax stuff your friend uses.” He made a raspberry sound. “They’re expensive and impractical.”

  “Everyone can see the climate is changing,” she said, giving the pan a stir. “People my age worry the world’s all messed up and it’s too late to fix it. And now, even if it has numbers stamped on the bottom, they say most plastic isn’t recyclable.”

  “The truth is, it probably never was recycled.” He shook his head. “And whose fault is that? Americans are terrible sorters. People were just throwing everything in the recycling bin and feeling virtuous. They thought someone on the other end knew all the rules and would figure it out for them. That’s why no country wants to take our plastic anymore, because most of it is really garbage.”

  Bridget ran hot water and then filled the measuring cup to the amount Ajay had written down to make the basmati rice. “So you’re just going to leave me here all by myself and go down to sell plastic to poor countries that definitely won’t recycle it?”

  He ran a hand down his face. “Look, Bridget, what do you want me to do? This is what I know. Do you think I want to be away from you? But I need to if I want to keep my job. And selling plastic beats not having a job at all.”

  “What do you mean?” She put the pot on the burner, turned it on, and salted the water. “Are you worried about being fired?”

  To her shock, he nodded.

  “But you work so hard! That can’t be legal.”

  “It doesn’t matter how hard I work if I don’t make my numbers. Sure, Triple P can’t fire me for being a man, or white, or a lapsed Lutheran. But firing me for not making my sales numbers? That’s totally legal.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Legal and fair can be different things.” He leaned against the counter. “Don’t you understand, Bridget? I have to do this for you. For us.”

  AJAY

  Sudden Turns of Fate

  Ajay woke up when his mom and sister came home at six A.M. He pulled the pillow over his head, but it didn’t cover the sounds of their chatter and laughter as they exclaimed over their finds. Crazy people got up at four A.M. on Black Friday to save money. Indians got up at one A.M. on Black Friday and laughed smugly when the four A.M. crowd arrived and were forced to stand behind them in line and then pick through their shopping leftovers.

  Yesterday Ajay had gone all out, cooked a meal that interpreted a traditional Thanksgiving meal though an Indian lens. Herbed paneer, the cheese squeaky and fresh. Cumin roasted carrots. Scalloped potatoes made with masala and coconut milk. Before roasting the turkey, he’d marinated it overnight in freshly toasted spices and homemade yogurt. On the side, he had served tangy chutney and, to cool everything off, a bowl of raita made with more yogurt, chopped cucumber, and spices.

  The yogurt he’d used was a direct descendant of the yogurt his dead grandmother had brought to the US forty years earlier. She’d wrapped a tiny container of it in carbon paper, believing that an airport X-ray machine couldn’t detect it. One of her first acts in
America had been to use that bit of yogurt to start a new batch. And week after week, year after year, the cycle continued, the old giving birth to the new. The fridge always held yogurt, and it was eaten with every meal, offering a cooling respite to spices, a tang to soups, a lift to desserts. As usual, his grandfather, his dead grandmother’s widower, had gotten a little teary-eyed when he tasted the telltale tang of the raita. The meal had been another unqualified success.

  Now the Thanksgiving leftovers were refrigerated in the collection of old pickle, chutney, and jaggery powder containers that his frugal parents used instead of Tupperware.

  Ajay sighed in frustration. The chatter in the living room was not abating. It was clear he was not going to be able to go to sleep, even though the sun had not yet started to rise. Yesterday, he had had family and food to distract him. But today he was fully aware of Bridget’s absence. He wouldn’t be with her for three more long days. He missed seeing her blow on her cold fingers, hearing the humming sound she made when she tasted a dish he’d made. Watching her lips as she read aloud.

  And now to his surprise, Ajay found he also missed the world of Swords and Shadows. The twists, the secrets, the betrayals, the doomed loves, the sudden turns of fate. On Wednesday, Bridget had finished reading Unicorn Wars, the third book in the series. The book had actually ended with two of the main characters on the gallows, nooses around their necks. Bridget had refused to tell him, but Ajay was pretty sure they would live. At least he hoped so. On Monday she would start Court of Sorrows and he would know for sure. But the idea of having to wait that long now seemed untenable.

  Trying to distract himself, he picked up his phone. And then somehow he found himself clicking on Multnomah County Library’s website. The print and ebook editions for Court of Sorrows weren’t available. But the audiobook was. And before Ajay could think twice, he clicked on the link to download it.

  DERRICK

  Much Better

  All through physics class, Derrick kept his eyes on Bridget, as he always did. But he hadn’t spoken to her since two days after he’d taken Bob.

  At least, not that Bridget knew of. In reality, it had been his fingers writing Bob’s emails in response to her latest additions to the database. First, Derrick had gone back through Bob’s outbox to see how he’d phrased them in the past. Most were brusque, a few chatty. As Bob, Derrick had replied to the first email of Bridget’s that he’d seen with a quick “Thanks!” After her second submission, he had risked a few sentences complimenting her on her thoroughness. And blushed at her smiling emoticon in reply.

  Today, Bridget’s flame-red hair was tucked behind the pale shells of her ears. Ever since being caught by Mr. Manning, she had stopped surreptitiously listening to Swords and Shadows. While Derrick loved the stories, Bridget must practically inhabit them. Someday he hoped to introduce her to Cascadia. She would discover there were even better things than books. In Cascadia, you could be the hero of the story. And who didn’t want that?

  Class broke for lunch. Derrick sat at the same table he shared with the other quiet kids, but now he always made sure to face the window. This way he could watch Bridget and Ajay as if they were on a giant muted TV. As the days had passed, Derrick’s jealousy had abated. The closest Ajay came to touching Bridget was when he handed her something to eat. Maybe he didn’t even like girls.

  But it was clear he was falling for the world of Swords and Shadows. While Bridget read, Ajay turned his face toward her like a flower toward the sun, his expressions ranging from fear to sadness. If anything, Derrick told himself, that was what he was jealous of. Not Bridget’s attention, but being able to hear the books fresh. While the parts of Eyes of the Forest he’d read so far were amazing, it was still set in a world he already knew well.

  After school ended, he drove home instead of to the cabin. This weekend, his mom would be in charge of Bob while Derrick was off in Cascadia.

  Derrick had felt oddly empty lately, even though he was finally getting to read Eyes of the Forest. It must be the lack of LARP. Holidays messed up the whole schedule, plus they met less frequently during the winter months. The prospect of having to do battle in the middle of a downpour or sleep in an unheated cabin tended to cut down on the number of participants.

  When he got home, the porch was piled high with boxes. Mostly from UPS, but there were two from Amazon, and one each from FedEx and DHL. The majority were for his mom, but not the five boxes that had been shipped from Austria. His custom gear was finally here!

  He pushed all the boxes inside the door, closed it, then grabbed the black drawstring bag holding his garb from his room. After hurrying into his black wool hose and long-sleeved tunic, he opened the first box. Black knee-length boots that laced up the back and cuffed at the top. He stroked the soft, supple leather as he pulled them over his hose, then took a few steps. It was like walking on a cloud. They definitely wouldn’t pinch his toes. Derrick looked closer. The contrast between the new leather and his old hose was striking. He had never noticed, but the wool was faded, more charcoal than midnight.

  The next box held a black padded gambeson, which was basically a coat that fastened with leather straps and buckles. He slipped into it, relieved at how well it fit. While Middle Ages clothing wasn’t particularly formfitting and he had emailed his measurements, part of Derrick had worried that his translation from inches to centimeters was off.

  The remaining three boxes held his new armor. Even in the weak winter sunlight, the pieces shone like mirrors. Silver jointed-metal leg guards. A breastplate topped with a semicircular gorget to protect the upper chest. Jointed arm guards that ended in articulated metal gloves. And finally spaulders that covered his shoulders and connected with the arm guards.

  When people asked, Derrick’s plan was to say that some pissed-off girl on eBay was selling her ex-boyfriend’s gear and didn’t realize what she had.

  He snapped all the pieces into place, topped them with his new scarlet-lined black cloak, and clanked down the hall to the bathroom with its full-length mirror.

  When Derrick looked at his reflection, his eyes regarded him from a stranger’s face. He wouldn’t have been out of place in a movie. Not as an extra either, but as the lead. He was wearing everything he’d dreamed of for years. Pieces he’d bookmarked on websites or regarded enviously when they graced some doughy trauma surgeon. But now they were all his.

  So why did it all feel so flat, like he was miming joy instead of really feeling it?

  And then Derrick realized what was missing. He had ordered a top-of-the-line latex sword and dagger, but they hadn’t yet been delivered. The quality was supposed to be so good that you could hold them inches from your eyes and still think they were metal.

  Without weapons, of course he couldn’t get the full effect.

  Derrick didn’t know his mom had come home until she appeared out in the hall, her eyes narrowed and her arms full of shopping bags. They regarded each other in silence, each of them silently daring the other to comment on their spending. Finally, she shrugged and continued on to her bedroom. Derrick retrieved his street clothes and duffel from the living room and then changed back into them, carefully nesting his new gear so that it all fit into his bag.

  When he came out, his mom was gathering up things to take to the cabin. He handed over the keys.

  “Where’s the stun gun?” she asked.

  “I left it at the cabin.” He swallowed. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

  She busied herself with her bags. “We’ve gotten a lot of requests for the Haldon Cam.”

  “Mom—that’s not what’s important. We did this so Bob would write. Not so he could be humiliated online.”

  “The money’s good. Aren’t you the one taking economics? I’m sure we make more per minute with Bob on cam than we do on him writing.”

  It felt like the more his mom had, the more she wanted. Although was Derrick much better? If they had had a different kind of relationship, he might have asked h
er if all this new stuff left her feeling as empty as he did.

  “If your only focus is the money, then why aren’t you cleaning out his checking account?”

  “Because that would be way more out in the open and the bank might notice. People might start asking questions.”

  Her words set off an uncomfortable echo. Eventually Bob would finish the book, and they would let him go. People might start asking questions then.

  And would Bob be willing to go along?

  BOB

  A Thousand and One Nights

  The door to Bob’s room opened. He didn’t turn, but he could feel Joanne’s glare, hot on the back of his neck, as he kept walking to nowhere. After hundreds of miles on the treadmill, his feet had toughened as his body slimmed down. This weekend, Derrick was off LARPing, leaving Bob to the not-so-tender mercies of his mother.

  In no hurry to interact with her, Bob kept typing. Or writing. Or whatever it was he was doing with the book he was parceling out to Derrick.

  Bob was nearly done with both books. This one for Derrick and the other, hidden underneath his feet, that he was writing for himself.

  “Down on your knees, yokel, and pay proper homage to your sovereign ruler,” King Orwen ordered Rowan, sitting on his jeweled throne in pasty splendor.

  Rowan remained standing, head held high, dressed in tattered rags.

  A hush fell over the hall as people awaited the king’s capricious wrath.

  At Rowan’s insolence, King Orwen curled his soft hands into fists. “I am your new sovereign ruler. You must kneel.”

  But Rowan didn’t move a single firm muscle. At a nod from the king, the soldier standing to Rowan’s left smote him in the face with the flat of his sword. The blow knocked his battered helmet to the marble floor with an echoing clang.