The ground fell away in front of them. They were lying on the lip of a rocky basin about twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide, a land formation left behind when the glaciers scoured the area. Dix handed her the binoculars and pointed with his chin. She scanned the stone outcroppings, saplings naturally bonsaied as they clung to small pockets of soil in cracks between the rocks, the thick layer of leaves built up on the ground, a few scrappy evergreens, a twisted birch, a couple of small maple trees. Nothing even vaguely unusual. She moved the binoculars off her face and looked at her father questioningly. He pointed again, this time with his finger, directing her eyes across the way and to the left. Colden squinted, let her eyes drift, and softened her focus.
There. Now she saw it. It was like staring at one of those illusion drawings where you can’t stop seeing the young woman until suddenly you can only see the old woman, hidden in plain sight in the drawing. There was a spot where the rock face met the ground. It resolved itself in front of her eyes into a small overhang, cleverly hidden behind evergreens and a few logs set to appear as if they had arranged themselves there naturally. There was a line in the leaf litter, a darkness in the rock face, which became a thin trail leading away from a small cave beneath the overhang. She kept staring, and a rope high in a nearby tree came into view, adorned with a branch-covered bag, hoisted there to be out of reach of bears. There was a small ring of fire-blackened stones. A bent grill leaned against the wall, barely distinguishable from the rock behind it. Colden looked at her father with raised eyebrows and tipped her head over her shoulder, signaling her concern that they were a little too exposed; if someone returned to the cave and had the inclination to look in their direction, they’d be seen. Dix scooted backward on elbows and knees. Colden followed.
“What should we do?” Colden whispered.
“Wait,” Dix said. “See if anyone shows up.”
Colden rolled over onto her back. She removed a stick that was digging into her side. She put her pack under her head and crossed her hands over her stomach. And then, without meaning to, she was suddenly, deeply asleep.
She woke some time later, groggy, confused, stiff, and sore. Her eyes fluttered, and in her liminal state, she tried to remember where she was, why she was lying on the forest floor. A mosquito bit her ear. She was too befuddled to move, so she tried to concentrate. Slowly, the images of the rock basin came back to her. Memories of the evening before came back as well, her difficult conversation with her father, her restless night. She was shocked she’d fallen asleep like this, right here in the duff. Without getting up, she looked to her right and left. She didn’t see her father, but she did see his pack. She rolled slowly, carefully, onto her stomach. Dampness had seeped through her pants and shirt. She looked around. Dix was not there. It was odd that he would have left her sleeping like that, but it was even more unusual that he’d leave his pack behind.
Then she knew, in a sudden rush of awareness, what had happened. And that once again, she’d miscalculated and missed out. She swore silently at herself and inched her way back to the lip of dirt and rock.
There he was. Sitting on a stump by the ring of stones, his knees bent at an acute angle, as if he was on a child’s bike. She inhaled sharply, then covered her mouth with her hand to keep herself from calling out to him.
What the hell was he doing? How did he even get down there? And why wasn’t she there with him?
Colden kept scanning. The rock face behind him was different—branches had been moved aside to reveal a dark, moss-covered tarp. As she watched, the tarp itself moved, pushed aside by a young man, impressively taller and more broad than her father, with a dark waterfall of black hair cascading over his face. Brayden. Colden held her breath. He had something in his hand. He stepped to Dix and gave it to him. A fistful of twine and wire. Snares. Now neutralized. She saw them share a few words that she could not hear. Then Brayden got a long stick and showed that to Dix. A fishing pole.
They’re chatting like Boy Scouts comparing notes about hunting and fishing in the backwoods, Colden thought. Shouldn’t they be doing something more important? Like packing up?
Colden didn’t know what to do and then realized there was only one thing to do—slide back, stay out of sight, and wait for her father. The forced passivity infuriated her, but she held her position and resisted her impulsivity. If she stepped in, she might wreck whatever delicately balanced relationship her father was forging down there among the rocks. Doing the right thing slightly mitigated her frustration at being left out. A flicker swooped through the forest. A chipmunk scurried among the punky logs at her feet. She waited, checking her watch. Fifteen minutes passed. She’d give it another five minutes. OK, five more. She was just about to move back to the rock edge to see what was going on when her father appeared in front of her. It was as if he had materialized from nothing but air.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “You scared me.”
Dix put his finger to his lips, picked up his pack, and motioned at Colden to follow him. She got to her feet and followed him in silence for almost an hour. Finally, they were back on the main trail. Colden stopped. Dix kept going a few steps before looking back over his shoulder at her. She threw up her hands in a demand for an explanation.
“He’s not ready to come out yet,” Dix responded to her silent question. “He’s not ready to face, you know, all of that.” Dix moved his hand vaguely in the air. “But we talked. He’s OK. He’s not going anywhere. He promised me. He said I could come back. So, I will. We’ll talk some more.”
Colden looked at him, her eyes wide and stunned.
“That’s it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Don’t we need to get him out of there?”
Dix shook his head. “No, we don’t need to do anything. He’s fine. He’s an adult. He’s healthy. Eating pretty good out there. Misses chocolate. I gave him the extra bar I brought for you. Didn’t think you’d mind. Maybe chocolate will entice him to come out.”
“What about the thefts?”
“He told me that he took a few things. Couple of sleeping bags and some reading material. Some food. Canned goods mostly. He said he was sorry, but that’s what got him through the winter. He didn’t take your gas can. No need for it. Nothing to power up. Some other jerk must have done that. He did take the moose leg. Made jerky from it. Gave me a piece. Pretty good, actually.”
“Why’s he out there? What’s he running from?”
“Didn’t ask directly. I just met him, Colden. He’ll tell when he’s ready. Can’t be a pretty story.”
“Didn’t he wonder what you were doing out there?”
“Not really. Lots of people wander these woods.”
“Lots?”
“Well, enough that seeing me didn’t seem too much of a surprise to him.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. We’re going home. I’ll come back in a few days. Without you.”
“Without me?”
“Yes, Colden. Without you. You’re far too scary for this guy. You’d run him right off.” Dix grinned at her and started off down the trail. She had no choice but to follow.
25.
Brayden came around the edge of the rock outcropping that defined the small amphitheater he thought of as home and saw a man sitting on a stump. His stump. The very seat where he spent hours eating, sipping water, playing with the chipmunk that had become his friend. He was strangely not surprised. It was as if the very thing he had been unknowingly waiting for had come to pass. He paused briefly, a mere hitch in his forward motion, then kept moving forward.
“’Lo,” the man said.
Brayden nodded. There was something familiar about him.
“Nice place you have here,” the man said.
“Thanks.”
Brayden’s voice was an unfamiliar sound. He had not spoken out loud in so many months. Just whispers to himself as he pulled i
n a line, hand over hand, on his fishing pole or worked the thin twine and small branches that set his snare. It was too loud, too sudden, like a sneeze in a library. He stood there, unsure what to do next. There was only the one stump. There was no place for him to sit. The man got up. Now they were both standing, two tall men, looking each other over. The man cracked his knuckles.
Now Brayden remembered him. He’d come to school, taught some sort of woodworking. No, furniture building. That’s when Brayden learned how poorly made the chair his father and he had built was. That’s when he realized how many shortcuts his father had taken.
The man lowered himself to the ground and sat with his long legs stretched out in front of him. Brayden did the same. If there were not two seats, neither would take the one.
“Please,” Brayden said, gesturing. “Take the stump.”
He was trying to be polite. Trying to remember manners. His voice, so long unused, cracked. He hoped this didn’t make him seem weak.
“My name is Dix,” the man said, staying where he was. “I think we may have met before. I came to your school.”
Brayden nodded.
“I know your father a little bit. Mostly by reputation.”
Brayden sat very still.
“Not a very nice man, your father,” Dix said, matter-of-factly. “Hope you don’t mind me saying so.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Brayden replied quietly. “It’s just the truth.”
Brayden had lost the habit of speaking. His voice felt like sandpaper in his throat.
“You fixed this place up real nice. Must have been a bit chilly this past winter, though,” Dix said, smiling at him. “Fortunately, it was a mild one.”
Brayden wondered how he knew he’d been out here this long. He thought of the sleeping bags he’d taken. He wondered if this man was here to retrieve them. If he knew. If he was going to get in trouble for stealing. He wondered if he’d killed his own father. If he was going to be charged with something. It was hard to imagine the old man dead. He was so tough and mean. Brayden thought it wouldn’t be beyond him to die just to spite his son, just to get him sent to jail. He didn’t say anything. He waited. They looked at each other. The man pulled at a piece of grass and put it in his mouth. Then he looked away, seemed to be thinking of something.
“So, look,” he finally said. “You must be wondering what I’m doing here. Long story, but let’s just say it came to my attention that you are out here, been camping away for quite a while. That maybe you like it here, maybe you don’t. Maybe you just don’t know where else to go. You should know that your parents are OK and were looking for you. Maybe that’s not a good thing. Seems they’re just worried about you, but I know that things in families are not always what they seem. My wife. She’s a social worker. Maybe you’ve had some bad social workers in your past, but I can guarantee you she’s a good one. The best. She’d like to help you out. We’d all like to help you. Guess you’re eighteen now. You don’t need to go back to your parents if you don’t want to.”
He looked at Brayden directly. Brayden kept his head down. He was taking in the man’s words. There were a lot of them, and he had grown unaccustomed to words.
“I’ll let you think about that for a minute,” Dix said.
They both sat in the silence, listening to the forest. Brayden felt each thing this Dix person has said settle in him, like a fresh leaf set free, tacking back and forth on the breeze of a new season until it settled gently on the ground. Dix sighed, signaling he was about to begin again.
“You think you might be ready to c’mon out of here?” he asked. “Or are you happy to stay? We’ve got a big house, and there’s room for you if you’re hankering for a shower and a solid meal and a soft bed. Just until we get things sorted out. For as long as you need.”
Brayden shook his head. He didn’t even realize he was doing it at first. His hair brushing back and forth over his face alerted him to the motion. He couldn’t look directly at this man in front of him. He seemed trustworthy. He knew he meant him no harm. But he couldn’t leave with him. He didn’t know why he couldn’t, just that he couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.
“OK. I understand,” the man said.
“Sir?” Brayden said.
“Yes?”
“Do they . . . does he know I’m out here?”
“Don’t believe so. And he won’t hear it from me. I promise you that.”
“Thank you.”
“You need anything? Anything I can bring you?”
Brayden appreciated the respect this man was showing him. He shook his head.
“I’m OK,” Brayden said.
“I can see that,” Dix said. “Seems you’re doing pretty darn well out here. I admire that. Admire your resourcefulness. Can you show me what you’re using to feed yourself? Snares? Fishing pole?”
Brayden was glad to have something to do. To stop talking about, thinking about, his father. He went into the cave and came out with the things Dix had asked to see. They looked them over. Dix gave him a few tips that would improve their function. He told him to be careful to not leave the snares unattended in the woods. He said dogs could get caught in them. Brayden hadn’t considered that before.
“Well, I better be going,” Dix said. “You’ve probably had more than enough of me.” He stood up, brushed his pants with the flat of his large, long-fingered hands. “Would it be OK if I came back sometime?”
Brayden shrugged his acceptance. He wanted to say more, to be more enthusiastic. He liked this man. He wanted to see him again. He didn’t know how to express it.
Dix reached into a pocket and handed Brayden a chocolate bar.
“Here. Enjoy. I bet it’s been a while since you’ve had something like this. I know I’d miss chocolate myself. Probably one of the only things I’d miss.”
Brayden took the gift. Saliva pooled in his mouth.
He whispered a quiet, “Thank you.” Then added, “Thank you for coming to see me.”
Dix stepped over to where Brayden was sitting with his head bowed and squeezed his shoulder. Brayden flinched. The man didn’t remove his hand. Brayden stiffened. It had been so long since he’d been touched. And he’d so rarely been touched with anything other than . . . than things he didn’t want to think about. His eyes burned with tears that would not come. He hadn’t realized until right then how lonely he was, how lonely he had been.
The man walked away. Brayden was sorry and relieved to see him go. He would come again, Brayden knew that. He expected he wouldn’t have to wait for too long.
26.
Three weeks later, Colden and Drew were sitting out on the deck behind the house. They’d been there for hours. The sun had set, and the bugs subsided. Dix and Sally had cleared the dinner plates and gone indoors. The house behind them had settled into silence. The two candles on the table had burned down and out, leaving them in a darkness softened by the slow rise of an almost-full moon.
Drew was now a family friend. He had an open invitation from Sally and Dix to come and stay anytime he was in the area. He checked in with all of them about Brayden. And Daisy. And Gene. Not Larry, because now Larry was gone. But Colden knew she had to tell Drew about Larry. She knew she had to clear the air and the record.
Over dinner, Dix told Drew about his visits to Brayden. Dix had been out to see him twice more since the first discovery. He put no pressure on him, just visited and brought him a few things to ease his time in the woods: a bear ball, a camp stove, chocolate, coffee.
“It’s like you’re taming him,” Drew said.
Sally nodded. “Yes, he’s gone a little feral.”
“He’s like a dog that’s been abused,” Dix said. “We can’t push him. We have to be available and gentle, and let him come to us.”
“Yes,” Sally said. “More than likely, abused.”
They’d all gotten quiet at that thought, each caught up in their private imaginings of what Brayden might have been through. Whatever it was, it was something bad
enough that it made staying where he was preferable and safer than returning to his parents’ home. After dinner, they sat out on the deck and spoke of other things. The weather. Politics. As it got darker, the conversation slowed, and silence settled in. Dix and Sally, at some unspoken cue from each other, got up and went into the house. Drew and Colden sat, neither wanting to rend the quiet that had settled its cloak around them.
Eventually, Colden felt agitation build inside herself as she fretted about how to begin the story she had, so unwillingly, to tell.
“How are you, Colden?
The words were so quiet, Colden almost wondered if she’d imagined them.
Drew waited a beat and then repeated himself.
“How are you, Colden? You seem kind of withdrawn.”
Colden sighed. She’d been caught. She was also relieved he started the conversation she could not.
“It’s just that I have something to tell you that I wish I didn’t,” she said.
“Spill it,” Drew said. “You’ll feel better. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it.”
Colden told him, in as few sentences as possible but without holding back any information, about Liam and Larry. Drew listened, his feet propped up on the deck railing, taking occasional sips from a beer, staring straight ahead, letting her speak without interruption. Finally, her story sputtered out just like the candles had some minutes before.
“I’m pretty embarrassed,” she said into the gloom.
“No need to be,” he replied.
“Could have all gone very wrong,” she insisted.
“But it didn’t,” Drew countered. “That’s what matters. You caught yourself in time.”
“You’re being quite generous to me,” Colden said, unwilling to go easy on herself.
“Not really. Dudes can be jerks. He was a jerk to you. I don’t blame you for feeling jumpy and suspicious.”
There seemed to be some undercurrent of private, personal experience informing Drew’s response. Colden had the passing thought that maybe Drew was gay. Maybe that’s why he knew what jerks men could be. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t come onto her. Which made her wonder if she wanted him to.
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