“You’re not speaking very well of your own gender,” Colden said.
“Well, I’m a guy,” Drew said evasively. “I know how we can be.”
Colden wished he wouldn’t be so flippant. She didn’t know what more to say. She hoped he’d say something, share something. It was as if they were waiting for each other. He took his feet from the railing.
“I should go,” he said.
“I thought you were staying?”
“Thank you.” He sighed. “But I can’t.”
Colden felt stung. His tone was strangely abrupt.
“Early meeting tomorrow with my clients,” he said. “They’ve put me up in some hotel in Plattsburgh. Few other folks flying in.”
Plattsburgh was an easy drive in the morning. He could stay. She kept these thoughts to herself.
“OK,” she said.
“Colden?”
“Yes?”
She hoped he was reconsidering. She wished for company. For his company.
“You think your dad would let me come with him to see Brayden?”
His question confused her.
“Um. I don’t know. I guess. Don’t see why not. Ask him.”
“It’s just.” Drew exhaled a burst of air. “I would like to talk to him. Call it a hunch about something.”
Here it was again, that feeling of being excluded from the boys’ club. First Gene. He was her pal; she was the one who talked to him, who got things going, who introduced him to Drew. Then, just when things got interesting, she was shut out. Liam and his Sasquatch nonsense. All the guys had known his little nickname, but she had not, and this gap in her knowledge had caused her a cascade of embarrassment. Drew was her friend. Yet it seemed he’d gotten to be best buddies with her father. It felt disloyal and unfair. Now Brayden. She’d found the guy. By mistake, but still. Now her dad had taken over.
“Well, he didn’t want me coming along,” she said, trying to make it sound like a joke. “But he’ll probably feel differently about you.”
Drew stood and paused. In the dark, she felt his hand drop onto her shoulder. He squeezed. She was not consoled. But she reached up and grabbed his hand, anyway, and as she did, she had an insight, a brief, sunny break in the clouds that had gathered inside her head.
Whatever is going on with him, it has nothing to do with you, she told herself. Be more generous, more understanding, more kind. It’d be good for him, but even more, it’d be good for you.
Daylight began to fade by late afternoon, and the nights came on chilly. A few trees, stressed by location or age, flamed with spots of hot color punctuating the fading abundance of green. The world was hinting at, warning about, the season to come. A slight hustle replaced the slow motion of summer. People and other animals began to prep for what was next, when the outdoors became a hostile place again, full of cold winds, white snow, and black ice, things that could kill you.
Colden had to survey several beaver ponds, looking for changes in activity and conditions. Dix had to clean out gardens, lay in firewood, patch spots where the weather could sneak its way inside his clients’ homes. Sally faced the new onslaught of issues and crises that going-back-to-school time predicted in her work. Drew was in Albany and hadn’t said when he’d be back. At least not to Colden.
No one was talking about Brayden. But Colden knew the same thoughts were floating through their minds: he needed to come indoors. He couldn’t be chased or coerced—he needed to be enticed. No one knew what would work to make him feel safe enough, trusting enough. No one knew if whatever they were—or were not—doing was the right or best or even legal thing. And there was no one to ask because they would not betray his trust by telling authorities or his family. Besides, he was a free man. There was no reason to.
Colden assumed her father had a plan brewing, or maybe several alternative plans, but didn’t want to ask what they were. She didn’t want to bother Dix, and she didn’t want to face the possibility that he’d be unwilling to tell her. So, she focused on her own work. Daisy had healed up and was staying mostly at the farm shelter, playing with other dogs, completely unconcerned about her lost leg. Colden visited her regularly but was in the field a lot. She spent her time at home in her cottage, crunching numbers, organizing data, creating maps, revising her reports.
She didn’t work on her coywolf project at all. She needed a break from chasing ghosts. She was freshly determined to find something, understand something, uncover something that would elevate her beaver and moose project from basic conservation science to something more career-making. She stopped waiting for nature to hand her an “aha” moment and pushed herself to find one. She also, reluctantly, reminded herself that good science and effective conservation didn’t necessarily require “aha” moments.
September arrived. Colden went out for a few days of collecting moose scat and taking photographs of browse marks on plants and trees near a couple of stable beaver ponds. The work made her tired and dirty, which was fine, but she was also annoyed at the Labor Day campers and hikers she’d had to dodge. There were all these people tramping noisily through what she could not help thinking of as “her” woods. She knew part of the point of conservation was to keep wild places wild for people, as well as animals. She just wished that humans would follow basic rules of common sense and politeness. It only took a few yahoos leaving food unprotected at a campsite to train bears that tents were a predictor of yummy snacks and that hikers were mini-marts on foot. It only took a few dogs off leash to dig out the nests of birds and small mammals and disrupt fish hatchlings in ponds and streams. Just one idiot blaring music from his digital device could drown out the sounds of owls and frogs for anyone nearby.
She was protective. She thought that was a good thing. She was also judgmental. She thought that was a necessary thing.
These were the thoughts and irritations that spun through her mind like the yellow leaves swirling alongside her tires as she drove up her driveway on a bright afternoon just after the three-day weekend. She was so preoccupied, it took her a moment to realize there was an unfamiliar car parked near the garage. Right where she usually parked. Wait. It was not unfamiliar after all—it was Drew’s little SUV. Happiness at the thought that he was there, in her house, that she’d see him momentarily, spontaneously swelled inside her. Those same feelings were then gently tamped down with irritation and confusion that she hadn’t been informed he was coming.
What if she had stayed out another day or two? She would have missed him. Maybe he texted her; she hadn’t looked in days. She tried to shake off her annoyances as a dog would water from its coat, left her belongings in the truck, and walked quickly to the back door of the house. She expected to hear the chatter of voices and the clatter of plates that she associated with Drew’s visits, but the house was silent and still. They would have seen her, heard her come up the drive. Yet, no one came to greet her. The kitchen was empty, the counters bare.
“Hello?” Colden called. “Anyone home?”
Of course, they were home. Her question held the hint of a rebuke at being ignored.
“We’re out here.”
That was Sally, calling from the far side of the patio off the dining room.
Colden finished prying off her boots and walked through the house. She opened the sliding door and froze in place. There, sitting somewhat somberly in chairs, were Sally, Dix, Drew. And Brayden.
Colden felt stuck in the doorway. Sally and Dix stared at her. Brayden stared at the ground a few feet in front of his feet. Drew stared at Brayden. Then he got up, grabbed an empty chair, and set it down next to himself.
“Colden, come join us,” Drew said, smiling at her. “Brayden, this is Colden, Sally and Dix’s daughter.”
Brayden flicked his eyes in her direction—she saw some shiver of recognition—and then dropped his head again. Colden looked at him. She wondered if they’d met before, but no, that was impossible. Her gaze flitted from one person to another. Something big had passed between them
all, some sort of knowledge or story or experience, and she had no idea how to catch up to wherever they had been and wherever they had ended up. A breeze drifted by, bringing the smell of sweat from her shirt to her nose. Her face itched with dirt and salt. Her stomach growled. She was thirsty.
“I’m going to get a beer,” she said. “Anyone else want one? Brayden, can I get you something?”
“I’ll take one,” Drew said.
No one else said anything. Colden felt slightly giddy. A little lightheaded.
“OK. Well, I’m also starving, so I’m going to order a pizza. Or two. Maybe three?”
At the word pizza, Brayden looked up. His dark brown, heavy-lidded eyes opened a bit. The suggestion of a smile played at his lips. Colden felt a sudden surge of joy. She almost laughed. She’d had miraculously found a secret key into the locked castle of this young man.
“Pizza, yeah?” she asked him.
Brayden nodded.
“Nothing quite like a pizza after a long stint in the woods, is there?” she said. “What’s your favorite?”
She ticked off ingredients and watched Brayden nod or shake his head at each one. Then she went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and bent over, pushing things aside so that she could get at the six-pack on the back of a shelf. When she straightened up and closed the door, Drew was standing there. He didn’t say anything to her, but his face was full of feeling, and his arms were open. Colden couldn’t tell if he was offering or asking for a hug. She’d never hugged him before. She put her drink on the counter and stepped into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, rested his cheek on the top of her head, and held her.
“Can we go somewhere, just the two of us?” he asked her, his voice a soft whisper. “Tomorrow. Pack a lunch, take a hike? Can you take me someplace, I don’t know, someplace beautiful?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Colden said. “Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“There’s so much I want to tell you,” Drew said, not letting go. “There’s so much I have to tell you.”
27.
Brayden was lying on the ground, staring up at the leaves swaying in the breeze that rustled the topmost branches. His backside was damp and cool, soaking up sensation from the earth, while his front was dry and warmed, as was the air around him. He heard a slight disturbance. He felt the vibration of footsteps. He didn’t move. There was no reason to hide. It was undoubtedly that tall guy, Dix.
He’d come by twice before. Brayden liked him. Dix didn’t ask anything of him. They sat and talked about fishing, trapping, and hunting. The woods. Best way to start a fire. The weather. He’d also brought him a stove with some fuel, some freeze-dried food, a couple of apples, a stack of granola bars, and packs of hot chocolate. All welcome things, delicious things. Dix had also brought him a bear ball, a little keg-size plastic container that was smooth all over so that a bear couldn’t get into it and you had to open with a coin. It was a neat device. Easier than stringing things up in the tree all the time. It was useful to him, and for that, he was appreciative.
The footfalls got closer. Brayden sat up. He listened. There was something different about the approaching steps. He waited, staring at the gap in the rock wall where Dix had appeared last time. Ah, there he was, filling the narrow space. Brayden used to have to squeeze through it sideways when he first found this hideaway. Now, he was so thin that, like Dix, he could step right through. He did. And there was another man right behind him. At first, Brayden thought it was a mistake, some trick of the light. No, definitely another man. Shorter, darker, but clearly there with Dix. Brayden scrambled to his feet, startled. They were both smiling at him.
“I brought a friend with me,” Dix said. “I hope that’s OK.”
Brayden had no idea what to do. He struggled between fear, discomfort, a desire to flee, and a competing desire to be polite to his new guest. There was nowhere to go, in any case. He was in an oversize rock bowl with high walls, and the two visitors were standing in front of his only escape route.
Dix and the other man stepped forward and lowered themselves to the ground. Brayden followed suit. He picked up a stick and poked at a soft spot on a log. The dark-haired man cleared his throat a few times.
“This is a wonderful spot you’ve got here,” he eventually said. Then, “My name is Drew, by the way. I’m really glad to meet you.”
Brayden nodded, unsure what to say, how to carry on a conversation with a stranger. It had been easy with Dix. Brayden had remembered him from the class. He saw right away that he and Dix had things in common. This other guy was different. Good haircut. Cleaner, newer clothes. Things bought for the weekend, not for everyday work. He could not imagine why he was here. Or why he’d be with Dix. He seemed someone from a city. Someone from far away. This scared Brayden.
Dix reached into his pack. He released a large plastic bottle and handed it to Brayden.
“Lemonade,” Dix said.
Like that was the most normal thing in the world, to be carrying a big bottle of lemonade in the backwoods of the Adirondacks when you’re out there hiking with someone who looks like they belong on a television show.
But Brayden loved lemonade. Dix must have known how good it would taste after all these months of nothing but boiled water. Brayden clutched the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed deeply. He couldn’t help but smile. The other men laughed. Brayden did, too. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. His cheeks ached with the unfamiliar effort. Conversation came easier after that.
Dix asked him a few things about the food, how the bear ball was working, if his tips for improving the fishing pole he rigged up had worked. The man named Drew asked him where he learned the skills he’d needed to make it out here. Brayden shrugged. His dad, he mumbled. Boy Scouts. Camp. Reading. Dix told some stories of his own camp and scouting experiences. Drew said he grew up in a city. Camp was different for him. He didn’t have scouts. He was Italian, raised Catholic, and went to church camp with robed priests instead of scruffy teenagers for counselors.
Brayden felt like they were talking about man stuff. It was comforting. He hadn’t had these conversations with his father. He hadn’t had many friends. This was nice, just sitting here with these two, chatting, with comfortable stints of silence in between. The conversation drifted from one topic to another, and it wasn’t until later, much later, when he was reflecting back upon it, that he saw how Drew and Dix were slowly moving the discussion in a specific direction. They knew why they were here. They knew that Drew had something he wanted to tell him and why. Brayden thought Drew was simply talking about how different things had been for him, growing up down there in New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from New York City, a place Brayden had never been and knew only from television. A place totally different from up here, in the mountains, where Dix and Brayden had spent their lives.
Brayden had listened closely to Drew. He found he liked him, and the differences between them became interesting instead of frightening. He tried imagining the sidewalks and asphalt, the tall buildings right up against one another, the groups of Jews and Irish and Italians, the huge quantity of people living so close together, the somber rituals and grandeur of the high church.
Brayden never saw it coming. Even later, he couldn’t figure out the exact moment when the conversation turned, when he realized why Drew was there, what Drew was trying to tell him about himself. About what they had in common.
28.
The house was full the night that Brayden followed Dix and Drew out of the woods. They ate pizza, talking very little, and then Sally showed Brayden to the guest room. Sally and Dix went to bed soon after. Colden, knowing she and Drew would have the next day together, as he had requested, resisted asking questions. The promise of full disclosure kept her comfortable in the quiet. Drew collapsed onto the sofa, and Colden, instead of wandering down to the cottage, curled up on the narrow, slightly stale-smelling mattress in her childhood bedroom. She woke in the predawn gra
y, tiptoed through the house, nudged Drew, and after the briefest of preparations, they left for their hike before the others had arisen. They picked up coffee and egg sandwiches for breakfast at the local Stewarts, along with subs, drinks, chips, and chocolate chip cookies for lunch—she wanted to give him the full experience of being a local.
As she drove to one of her favorite spots for a peaceful day hike, there was little conversation and even less tension between them. Drew sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, letting himself be led, apparently content to follow wherever Colden wanted to take him. The road she drove dipped and turned, a black ribbon twisting through the dense trees.
Colden parked her truck at an unmarked pull-off spot on the road. She and Drew stepped away from the clear, bright, squint-inducing sunshine of the early-September day and into the heavy shadows and damp air of the woods. Drew had to pause and bow his head a minute to let his eyes adjust. Colden waited for him, a few steps ahead. When he lifted his face, he stared and smiled at her, as if she were a bright beacon in a dark place. She smiled back, reflexively, and then turned away, flushed with some emotion she could not name.
They walked on, side by side when the trail allowed, him a few paces behind when it narrowed. It had rained in the night, and the low, wet spots left a layer of thick, dark mud on their boots. The rocks and roots rubbed raw by countless summer footsteps were slippery, the going slow and unhurried. The trail was relatively flat and the trees spaced wide enough apart that they could see filtered views of a small lake. They walked quietly for about an hour, crossing two shallow streams over rough plank bridges. Then Colden stopped. Drew caught up. She gestured not forward but instead to her right and stepped directly among the trees. She knew it would take Drew a moment to realize she had turned onto a narrow, almost invisible trail, and she was pleased that he might think she was taking him somewhere secret. She led the way up, up, up, along and above a stream, through young birches and beeches. The trail inclined steeply and was hemmed in by gray boulders as large as elephants, towering on either side of them. They climbed for about an hour, through a few sections that required them to scramble with their hands as well as feet; then the trail made a hard turn into a cluster of evergreens. Suddenly, they were out of the mud and in a grove with a soft blanket of dead needles under their feet.
Beneath the Trees Page 23