The Lying Woods

by Ashley Elston

  She laughs quietly but it doesn’t seem real. Nothing seems real.

  “Do you know where he is? Have you talked to him?”

  Shaking her head, she says, “No.”

  “When did he disappear?” I still don’t believe he left willingly. There has to be an explanation for this. Something that makes this make sense.

  “A couple of weeks ago,” she whispers.

  I push my chair, almost flipping it all the way over. “And you’re just now telling me? You didn’t think I should know about this sooner?”

  “I didn’t know what to do!” she yells. “I still don’t. And I was hoping he would show up with some sort of explanation. I was hoping you would never have to find out what a coward and crook he is!”

  Dr. Winston’s head appears in the small window on his door. As much as I hate her screaming at me it’s better than her blank expression earlier. She gives him a small wave, letting him know it’s fine, but we’re anything but fine.

  “Owen, your dad was really stressed out but he wouldn’t talk about it. He wouldn’t talk to me no matter how many times I asked him what was wrong. The last time I saw him he was working late at the office. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  I nod but don’t ask anything else.

  Her eyes flash to the door again. “It’s time to go.”

  “Give me a minute, please.”

  Mom nods and leaves the office but I don’t move. While my mind races through everything she just told me, my hand slides into the front pocket of my backpack and pulls out a folded piece of paper I received in yesterday’s mail on Dad’s letterhead:

  Hope things are going well at school. Just checking in on you. Thanksgiving break is coming up so you’ll be home soon. Found a new place right outside of town called Frank’s. Best burger around. They run a special on Wednesday nights. Maybe when you’re in town during your break, we can check it out. It would be a great place to have dinner with your dad.

  2

  The news breaks when we’re about thirty miles outside of Baton Rouge. We stop at a Denny’s for a late lunch since neither of us had eaten breakfast and there are still a few hours on the road until we get home.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t tell Mom about the note. It’s vague. He mentions my Thanksgiving break, which—if I was still enrolled in Sutton’s—would start on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Is he trying to tell me he’ll be at this place called Frank’s on that Wednesday night? I have no idea why he’d want to meet up with me and not Mom, but for now I’m keeping it to myself.

  Since I was eleven, I’ve only seen my dad on holidays, summer break, and the occasional parents’ weekend at school. But even before that, he wasn’t around as much as I wanted him to be. Work consumed him. It was his first love, the thing that got all of his attention and time, the thing he was the most scared to lose.

  He told me all the time how he hadn’t come from money so everything was sweeter now that he had it. And even though I didn’t see him as much as I wanted to, he was generous with things: trips, cars, toys.

  I’d like to think I know him. Know he wouldn’t do this. Know he’s not a thief. But the truth is, I know he would do anything to maintain our lifestyle. Anything.

  I pull up the information for the restaurant on my phone and discover it’s in the next town over from Lake Cane and the special on Wednesday night is two-for-one burgers starting at five. It’s too close not to take the chance that he’s sending me some sort of message.

  “You’re not touching your food,” Mom says.

  I nod toward her plate. “You’re not touching yours, either.”

  We sit in silence. I push the mashed potatoes and gravy around until it’s a soupy mess, mentally calculating what I would be doing at Sutton’s if this hadn’t happened. I’d be in English with Jack and Ray, thinking about lunch and practice after school and making plans for the weekend. My life is at Sutton’s. My life is in New Orleans.

  “Did you even think about what I’m missing at school? I had a cross-country meet this Saturday where I could have qualified for state. And lacrosse practice starts next week. And what about college? I’m in the middle of applications.”

  “I’m really sorry, Owen,” she whispers.

  “And what about my friends? It’s not like they can just come over to visit.”

  Jack’s family lives in Houston, where his dad runs a huge oil and gas company. I know Jack’s dad did business with my dad on wells in this area, but I haven’t heard if Dad screwed him, too. Ray is from New Orleans so even when he’s not at school, he’s still in the city. His dad is a sax player and his mom sings backup vocals for a jazz band and they’re on tour more than they’re at home, which is how he ended up in a boarding school in his hometown. Sai’s family moved from Mumbai to Atlanta, where his dad is a neurosurgeon, and his family flies him home as often as they can.

  Sutton’s is our common ground. It’s not like it would be easy for them to visit me or for me to see them.

  “I’m sure we can figure out a way for y’all to get together,” she says.

  The TV in the corner of the room is on mute but it might as well be screaming through the room. An image pops up on the screen and my stomach drops. It’s a picture of Dad and me with a little blurry spot over my face. We’re both behind the wheel of the huge sailboat we rented for spring break last year in the Caribbean. The caption reads: Louisiana CEO defrauds employees of millions, devastates small town and underneath it says, The Louisiana Enron?

  “Can we go?” I ask but don’t wait for an answer. I’m out of my chair and halfway to the car before Mom catches up.

  “Owen, wait. You can’t run off like this.”

  I spin around, the gravel from the parking lot spraying in an arc behind me. “Do you believe he did it?”

  Her shoulders slump and whatever fight she has left seems to bleed right out of her. “Everything points to him doing it. Everything.”

  I close the distance, my face close to hers. “But do you believe it?”

  “I do. He’s gone, Owen. Why would he run off if he didn’t do it?”

  I back away from her. Back away until my back hits the detective’s Suburban. And then I notice him, several feet away. It’s hard to make out his expression behind the mirrored sunglasses but it’s close to pity. And I hate it.

  “Owen, there hasn’t been a mistake. There isn’t anyone setting your dad up. He’s not an innocent victim in this. He stole money from the people who worked for him. And then he ran.”

  The metal of the Suburban is warm, but it doesn’t penetrate the cold that has settled inside me. I think about the note, torn into tiny pieces and buried in the diner’s bathroom trash can. He owes us answers. He owes us the truth.

  And if there’s a chance he’s going to be at that restaurant in fifteen days, then I will be there, too.

  • • •

  I’m not sure where I was expecting we would stay when we got to Lake Cane since Mom told me our house had been seized, but I’m shocked when we pull up to Aunt Lucinda’s house.

  “We’re staying here?” I ask.

  “Yes. And we’re lucky she took us in,” Mom grinds out.

  I jump out of the car when it stops and move to the back, wanting to get my things before Detective Hill has a chance to help, but he’s faster than I thought. He removes two of the boxes while I grab my big duffel.

  He nods to the cross-country trophy that’s sticking out of one of the boxes.

  “You’re a runner?” This is the first thing he’s said to me since the diner even though he spent most of the drive eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

  I nod. “I guess it’s a family trait,” I say back.

  He raises one eyebrow. No laugh. Not even a smirk. But he does point down the street and say, “If you head that way and take a left two blocks up, you can be out of town pretty fast if you prefer running in open spaces. It’s beautiful out that way and there’s an orchard down the road worth
checking out.”

  I mumble, “Thanks,” and turn toward Aunt Lucinda’s house but can’t make myself walk up the path to the front porch steps. The last time I was in this house it still belonged to my grandmother and my entire extended family had gathered here after my grandfather’s funeral. I was ten and I remember it like it was yesterday. I sat in the corner of the wraparound porch, eating chocolate pie and hiding from everyone else. Mom came looking for me, knowing how hard it was for me to be here with Granddad gone. She said, “Let’s go for a walk and stretch our legs.” We walked the neighborhood for hours, crisscrossing streets and lapping the house until everyone else had left. My grandmother died shortly after, apparently not able to handle being here without him, either. No one came back to this house after her funeral; they came to our house instead. Aunt Lucinda moved in not long after Grannie died.

  The house looks the same but also different. The wraparound porch is still wide and full of rocking chairs and porch swings, but the old wood has been repainted a light blue with white trim, making everything seem screwed up somehow.

  A screen door on the side of the house slams shut and I brace myself for this unwanted reunion.

  “Well, well, look who’s come home,” she says. Aunt Lucinda is my mom’s older sister and they’ve never been close. I’m sure the only reason she’s taken us in is so she can be the first to know all of the gossip.

  Mom nudges me as she passes and says under her breath, “Please say hello to your aunt.”

  “Hello, Aunt,” I say. Mom shakes her head but doesn’t look back at me.

  I hear Detective Hill’s big black car rumble away, but I don’t turn around to watch him go. If I had a free hand, I would’ve flipped him off, though.

  Mom stops inside the front door, waiting for me, her eyes begging me to come in, but it’s not her look that gets me moving. It’s the crowd that has formed on the sidewalk. A handful of women either jogging or pushing strollers has gathered in front of the house. Mom takes one look at them and flees inside. But Aunt Lucinda is beaming.

  “Hey, y’all.” She waves from the front porch. “Looky who’s back. My nephew, Owen, is home from that fancy boarding school in New Orleans.” She’s pointing at me and I turn to survey the group. One of the women holds up her phone and takes a picture of me.

  This is fucking great.

  Weighed down with bags, I make my way into the house. Aunt Lucinda waves good-bye to the women on the street and follows me inside.

  “Since your mama is in the guest room, you’re going to have to bunk down on the couch in the den. There’s a closet in the hall where you can put your stuff. It’s tiny but I guess it’ll work since the police took all of your things.”

  She smiles at me and I have to think that anywhere in the world would be better than staying here.

  I drop everything on the floor and head upstairs looking for Mom. It’s not hard to discover which room Aunt Lucinda turned into the guest room since I could hear Mom’s soft sobs the second I cleared the stairs.

  I knock once then open the door. She jumps up from the bed and turns away from me, hiding the fact that she’s wiping away tears.

  “Did Lucinda show you where you’ll be staying?” she asks when she finally turns around, a fake smile plastered across her face.

  “We can’t stay here. Aunt Lucinda is the devil.” I turn and look into the hall. I’m going to ignore the fact that she was up here breaking down since she clearly is trying to hide it from me. “There’s a reason why she never married. No one can stand to be around her for more than a minute.”

  Mom rubs a hand across her face and lets out a sad little laugh. She drops down on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to her as an invitation for me to sit, but I choose the stool in the corner. Her disappointment hits me in the gut, but I’m holding myself together by a thin string and one touch from her will snap it apart.

  “There is nowhere else for us to go. I promise you, I don’t want to be here any more than you do, but until I earn some money and find us an apartment, this is it.”

  I’m shaking my head before she finishes. “What about the Blackwells? They would help us.”

  Her mouth tugs down at the corners and I’m afraid she’s going to start crying again.

  “He stole from every single person who worked for him. The company is shut down for now and will probably stay that way, which affects a lot of other businesses in this town, so our friends are hurt by this even if he didn’t steal directly from them. And since there are so many environmental complaints, any well we fracked is shut down pending further testing. This affects almost everyone who owns land and receives royalties from gas sales, which is basically half the town. No one wants to help us.”

  I’m up and off the stool in a second. “I’m going for a run.”

  “Owen,” she calls out but I don’t stop.

  “You can’t just leave your stuff on the floor,” Aunt Lucinda says from the hall the second I’m out of the door. The way she backed up when I came out of the room makes me think she was trying to eavesdrop on us. I throw her a look that tells her to go to hell as I rummage in my backpack for my earbuds. I’d already changed out of my school uniform into some athletic shorts and a T-shirt when we stopped at the diner.

  I hit the front steps, glad the crowd is gone, and settle into a run in the direction Detective Hill suggested, cranking the music as loud as I can stand, hoping to drown out everything.

  I run for miles. I run until my side is on fire and my knees are aching and I’m stumbling down the side of the road. But I don’t stop and I don’t turn back.

  Some things are so familiar, like the Dairyette where we stopped for ice cream every Sunday after church, and other things are more of a blurred memory, like the old Kroger that seems to have been replaced with a newer and fancier version of itself.

  Lake Cane isn’t a big town and the old neighborhood where Aunt Lucinda lives is on the outskirts so it doesn’t take long before I’m hobbling down a narrow country road with only the occasional passing car just as Detective Hill predicted I would. But the traffic isn’t the only thing that has changed. The flat farmlands grooved with row crops give way to acres of land with trees planted in a perfect grid pattern. This must be the orchard he was talking about. Limping to the barbwire fence, I can’t stop staring at the precision that must have gone into the planting.

  The trees still have some of their leaves and the branches are heavy, some almost dragging the ground. I feel even more exhausted just looking at them.

  “You lost?”

  I fall back from the fence, trip over my own feet, and land on my ass in the ditch. The man sitting behind the wheel of a jacked-up golf cart laughs as I push myself to my feet.

  Facing him, I answer, “No, sir, not lost.”

  He stares at me long enough for it to be awkward then rubs his hand back and forth across his mouth. His salt-and-pepper hair sticks up in places and the deep creases around his eyes show he’s spent way too much time in the sun. He looks close to Dad’s age or maybe a little older. Looking up and down the empty road, he finally asks, “Did you run all the way here from town?”

  I manage to get myself out of the ditch and back on my feet before I answer. “Ran most of the way, walked the rest.” I look back the way I came and don’t see any sign of civilization. “I guess I didn’t realize how far I’d gone.”

  The man looks me up and down. “You from around here?”

  Here it goes. “I haven’t lived here in a while but I’m back now.” Please let him leave it at that.

  He seems to consider this for a moment, then gestures for me to get in his golf cart. “C’mon. We’ll ride up to the house and then I’ll run you back to town in the truck. Doesn’t look like you could make it another hundred yards in your condition.”

  I limp to the cart, thankful for the ride. Even though I’ve punished my body and will regret it for days, it’s exactly what I needed.

  He hesitates a s
econd, then sticks out his hand and says, “I’m Gus.”

  I shake his hand and mumble, “Owen.”

  Gus turns off the road onto a wide gravel driveway that cuts right through the middle of the property. On each side are lines and lines of trees, the branches so full that they block out most of the late-afternoon light.

  “What kind of trees are these?” I ask.

  “Pecan. And it’s almost harvest time,” he says.

  When his house comes into view, I’m speechless. It’s like one of those old plantations you find around Baton Rouge and New Orleans, but this one is in such bad shape I’m surprised it’s still standing. Every other window is missing a shutter and plants and vines are crawling up one side of the house like tentacles. The paint was probably once white but now it’s just a dirty yellow, and the brick path leading to the front door is close to being completely overtaken by grass.

  “Close your mouth, you’re gonna catch flies.”

  I shut my mouth and turn to look at him. “Sorry. I was just surprised….”

  He nods toward the house. “That happens a lot faster than you think it would. And once it gets to a certain point, it’s damn near impossible to set it back right.”

  He pulls the cart into an open bay in a detached garage on the side of the house. It’s a two-story structure and is in much better shape than the big house right next to it. There’s a small SUV and a couple of old trucks filling each bay. Gus gets out of the cart and gestures for me to get in the truck parked closest to the golf cart. I walk to the passenger side but he holds up his hand, stopping me.

  “If you’re interested, I’m looking for someone to help me around here. It’s time to take that house back from this orchard and then I’ll need help harvesting the crop. Maybe you could give me a couple of hours every day after school?”

  This guy is clearly out of his mind. “You met me five minutes ago and you’re offering me a job?”

  I think he’s not going to answer until he finally says, “Scraping bird shit and cobwebs out of that house is going to be more pleasant than spending your afternoons with Lucinda.”