The fire finally died when I forgot to keep adding sticks. My shivering revived me enough to try to relight it. I didn’t have any kindling and finally just crawled back into my smelly sleeping bag, draped the rabbit hides over me as best I could, and waited for the darkness to come. It wouldn’t. Instead, I got these crazy waking dreams where Richard Stangler kept popping up in otherwise normal scenes. I went noodling, but when I grabbed the fish, it was Richard, pulling me into the hole. I went to school, and he was my chemistry teacher, but he spoke with a squirrel's voice and had teeth like a steel fence. In the last one I remembered, I woke up in the cave, thinking I was safe—dying, but safe. Then the cave became Richard's mouth full of stalactite teeth coming down. The sandy floor became a tentacle tongue dragging me down to the reeking crack in the floor.
Sometime later, I woke to a roaring fire and what smelled suspiciously like chicken-noodle soup. I thought I was still hallucinating for sure. A pale hand was spooning the soup into my mouth, and I had never tasted anything so good. If the hand was attached to anything, I couldn’t see it and didn’t care. A disembodied hand bearing soup was just fine as long as it kept the fire going and the soup coming. It eventually forced some pills into my mouth and washed them down with the most amazing hot chocolate.
“Sleep now, boy. I got you,” someone murmured.
I wondered briefly how a hand could talk before falling into darkness once more.
With morning's light, the hand was gone. So were my smelly bed and clothes, the fire, and the cave. I was lying on a soft bed piled high with faded quilts. Across the room, the glass front of a wood-burning stove was full of flames. The log walls were bare but sanded smooth. Heavy blue curtains covered a large window near my feet. Rough wood beams cut from dark logs supported a cedar-plank ceiling. A rag rug covered much of the floor. The room smelled like shop class. Everything was spotless. Through a half-open door in one corner, I could see the edge of a sink and lots of white tile.
The existence of a bathroom with running water and a toilet convinced me—I was dead. The room didn’t exactly match up to what the preacher had told me to expect from heaven, but it sure didn’t look much like hell either. Reassured and a little surprised I’d made it to heaven, I drifted off again halfway through a prayer of thanksgiving.
I woke from time to time and found fresh soup and tea or hot chocolate on the end table. Sometimes pills were there in a little glass and sometimes not. I just took them and burrowed deeper into the quilts. I hadn’t seen anything of my rescuer other than the trays of food and drink. The first time I had the strength and need to hobble to the bathroom, I fell in love with the toilet paper. I’d forgotten just how lovely store-bought wiping could be. The room even had a pile of plush powder-blue towels and washcloths beside an old claw-footed bathtub. I bent to wash my hands and found a can of Right Guard, a bottle of Scope, a tube of Colgate, and a new toothbrush, still in the package. Clean teeth felt amazing. I didn’t stop brushing until I yawned so hard my jaw ached.
The next time I woke up, I lay there with the sheet over my head, trying to summon the energy to rise for a hot bath. Eventually, I noticed a rhythmic creaking across the room. I pulled the sheet down, and there in the rocking chair sat some guy. He was maybe forty, in jeans, boots, and a white T-shirt. His dark hair was buzzed short, and he was clean-shaven. He looked as if he spent too much time in the sun. His face was leathery, with squint lines around his eyes, like Clint Eastwood in those old spaghetti westerns. His thick fingers and bulging knuckles said he didn’t work in any office.
“My name is Joseph,” he said in a rumbling voice. "There’s some clothes of mine in the bathroom. They’re old but clean. Burned your stuff. Smelled like butt. Don’t have any boots to fit you. Come on in the kitchen when you’re ready.” He walked out of the room but left the door open a crack.
Crap, I'm alive after all, I thought and pulled back the covers. I brushed my teeth again for at least ten minutes, splashed some water on my face and hair, and noticed I needed a shave. When the hell did I get whiskers on my chin, and why does such a nice bathroom have no mirror? I wanted to see if I looked as haggard as I felt. Joseph had left me a T-shirt and jeans too, with an old tooled-leather belt, white tube socks, and a new package of boxers. I wasn’t really a boxers kind of guy, but since I hadn’t actually worn underwear in months, I wasn’t about to complain. At least they weren't tighty-whiteys. I slicked my hair back as best I could and cinched the belt tight to hold up the baggy Levi’s. The smell of bacon drifted through the door, and my mouth was instantly full of saliva. I suddenly remembered those old cartoon characters my dad loved so much, pulled along by my nose on a cloud of that lovely smell.
I walked into a big open room. A kitchen and table lay along one wall, where he stood over the stove. The couch and chairs looked old-fashioned, mostly heavy wood with thick cushions, and were crowded around a stone fireplace. Its massive mantel was an old crosstie that had been salvaged, smoothed, and put to better use. End tables and a coffee table were heavily carved with animals, trees, and plants. All the wood and even some of the trim had elaborate inlays of different wood grains and colors of stain. The walls were bare logs except for more carved wooden moldings and scattered statues. Even parts of the floor were laid out in elaborate wooden mosaics.
Carved into the wall above the mantel was a Bible verse:
But those that seek my soul, to destroy it, shall go into the lower parts of the earth.
They shall fall by the sword; they shall be a portion for foxes.
Psalm 63:9-10
It didn't exactly make me feel safer, but then I thought of Jesse and Richard Stangler, dead in a field, being eaten by scavengers, and decided I liked that verse. I liked it a lot.
Large windows peered out under a low porch roof toward a cliff across the river. It seemed familiar, like someplace I’d seen in a picture but never visited. After a minute, I recognized it as the cliff just upriver from my cave. Apparently, the caretaker I’d been so carefully avoiding had found me after all. At least he hadn’t called the cops—yet.
He said, “Sorry I don’t have any boots for you. You got some big feet. Get the juice out of the fridge and pour us some. Biscuits will be done in a minute.”
I’d never seen a fridge so neatly organized. It was kind of creepy. I found a big glass pitcher of pulpy orange juice and filled two mason jars sitting on the table. The heavy plates there were plain but looked antique. So did the silverware. Everything was polished to a mirror shine. Even the white cloth napkins were perfectly folded and looked as though they’d been ironed. A neat freak wearing wrinkled flannel and faded jeans was jarring, as if the house was more important than he was.
“Have a sit. I’ll do the serving,” he said and started hauling plates and platters over, arranging them at one end with everything in reach. He brought bacon and thick slices of ham, hash browns and biscuits, eggs, and a big bowl of wedged cantaloupe. Two jars of preserves looked homemade, one strawberry and the other a pale-purple something or other. He’d made enough for five people.
“Just made scrambled eggs. Never liked the runny kind,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee and me one of hot chocolate. He dumped a couple of marshmallows in each and said, “Well, dig in. Didn’t make all this for myself.”
If my show hogs could have seen me, they would have been proud and a bit frightened. I did things to that ham and bacon that just weren’t right. Biscuits with strawberry preserves, eggs in a mountain, and three hash browns soon went the way of the pork, washed down half chewed with too much orange juice and scalding chocolate.
He ate one heaping plate then sat sipping his coffee and watching me try to founder myself. He wore a friendly smile, but something about those eyes bothered me. They looked the same as my dad’s eyes when he talked about the war. They were a pale, washed-out shade of blue, and the light of his smile didn’t reach beneath his heavy brows.
When I finally leaned back, I burped like a foghorn.<
br />
He just laughed at my blush and said, “Don’t sweat it, kid. I take it as a compliment. Ain’t cooked for nobody but me in a long time.”
I sat there fiddling with the dregs of my hot chocolate, wondering when he’d ask who I was and what I was doing there.
After a minute or so, he asked, “What did that raw hog’s liver taste like?”
I froze.
“Must’ve been mighty hungry to do that." He took a long drink from his mug and watched me.
"You ever had squirrel?" I asked. "It was sort of like squirrel but a whole lot better."
He laughed without opening his mouth. "If you say so, kid. Don't believe I'd care to try it, so I'll take your word."
"Aren't you even going to ask my name?" I asked.
"I figure you'll get around to it eventually. There's no rush unless you're in a hurry to get back to that cave."
I shook my head. "No, I think I've had enough of the cave, if it's all the same to you. And thanks. For breakfast, the bed, and clothes. Mine were kind of rotten."
"Ain't nothing. You really want to thank me, how about telling me your story? I've been wondering for a while what a kid like you was doing living in a hole like a snake. The coyotes would be cracking your bones by now if I hadn’t come to check on you. Figure it's your business, though. You can stay until you get your strength back and move on or tell me a story. To tell the truth, it’s been a long time since I had company, and I’d rather hear the story.”
“Can I have some more hot chocolate?” I asked.
“Help yourself.”
When my cup was full, I walked around the room, looking at the carvings, wondering just how long he’d known I was in the woods. If he knew about that mangy hog, then he’d been onto me almost from the beginning. That certainly explained all the times I felt somebody was watching. Somehow, it made those lonely months less painful—in memory, at least.
I sat down in one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs by the fire. “Did you do all of this?” I asked, gesturing around the room.
“Made everything but the stove, sink, and fridge. Got those out of my old place down below.”
He refilled his coffee mug and added a little something extra from a bottle on the cabinet then joined me by the fireplace. It was cold and completely clean. Logs and kindling were piled in the rack, waiting for flame. I’d noticed earlier the mantel was carved in leaves and vines, but now that I was closer, I saw things hiding among them. Squirrels, birds, and even a few suggestions of partly formed faces looked back at me. On one end was my cave, so skillfully carved I knew it instantly. It was tiny but there. The more I looked, the more I recognized. At the other end was a carving of the grave and the stone bench. Tiny flowers lay on the grave.
"My name is Sam. Samuel Gunther."
He smiled, nodded, and waited for more.
Once I started talking, I barely stopped for breath. The only time I stopped was when I talked about what had happened to Eades when I shot the propane tank. That part was still hard to even think about. I babbled about Mike, the Stanglers, Dad, and a lot of stuff that probably made no sense at all. When I finally wore down, he got up and rinsed his cup in the sink.
“A red truck, huh? Fancy? Did it have a bulldog hood ornament?”
“Everything I just told you, and you’re asking me about the fucking hood ornament?” I asked.
Joseph turned slowly and stared at me for several seconds.
“You can stay," he said, "but don’t cuss at me again. Ever. TV is in that cabinet over there. Don’t touch the aquarium and stay out of my room. I’m going to go find you some boots.” He walked out the door and closed it behind himself.
A few minutes later, an engine rumbled to life outside, and a gray pickup piled high with wooden furniture passed the kitchen window.
Chapter 7
I woke up in Joseph's spare bedroom, groggy and listless. I couldn’t remember leaving the couch. New jeans and T-shirts, as well as some long-sleeved but light work shirts and a belt, lay on the dresser. The box beside them held a new pair of steel-toed work boots, Redheads. They were stiff and would take some breaking in but were the nicest I'd ever worn. I laced them loosely and walked into the kitchen. A bowl, spoon, and glass were set out with another of those crisp cloth napkins beside a box of Raisin Bran and one of Fruit Loops. Joseph was nowhere in sight, so I helped myself to the orange juice and a heaping bowl of sugar-laced heaven. I hadn’t had anything so sweet in a long time.
After cleaning up and setting the bowl, spoon, and glass to dry in the draining board, I walked out to the porch. I was still feeling weak and didn’t make it farther than a heavily padded wooden chair by the steps. Robins, blue jays, sparrows, and chickadees were working their way through a mixture of sunflower seeds and birdseed in the yard. A nice breeze was blowing across the porch. I must have dozed off because the sun was much higher when I jumped at the sound of a power saw firing up in the barn across the yard.
Walking through the open door, I saw Joseph arranging cut lengths of oak on a large table. The walls were hung with pegboards and held a wide variety of hand tools I mostly didn’t recognize. The place was spotless except for a pile of sawdust by the huge table saw. Bright, no-nonsense fluorescents hung from the ceiling and competed with natural light from two picture windows and several plexiglass skylights.
“Time to earn your keep,” Joseph said without bothering to turn around, pointing at a broom and dustpan hanging on the wall to my left.
I figured that was the least I could do and swept up the sawdust, carefully brushing off the table saw first. Even that little bit of effort left me light-headed, and I realized I must have been sicker than I thought.
“Nice shop,” I said.
He just grunted, but I saw something that might have been pride in his face as he motioned me over to a drafting table in the corner.
“You know how to work a band saw?” he asked.
“I can probably handle it.”
“We’ll see.” He pointed at the first of a list of measurements on a piece of scrap paper and then at a pile of dark, thin strips of a wood I didn’t recognize on the table. “Band saw is over there,” he said. “Don’t cut off anything you can’t grow back.”
I dragged an old barstool over to the saw and got to work, carefully measuring each length. Fifty pieces sat there in all, one-inch-by-five-eighths-inch rectangles.
“What are these for?” I asked.
He said nothing but just walked over and took the pieces I’d cut and eyed them. He stacked them up in two small piles, pulled out three that were a hair long, and tossed them back to me. After I trimmed each of them, he said, “That’ll do.”
He took down an assortment of chisels and two mallets from their pegs on the wall and began carving vines into some large table legs. After painstakingly circling each length in curly vines, he added leaves, each one as tiny and perfect as the last. The slight differences seemed intentional and only added to their realism. I was fascinated.
“Trick is,” he said after some time, “make your mistakes work for you. Leaves in nature ain’t all the same. Carving shouldn’t be either.” One at a time, he clamped each leg in place and carved a bearded face about halfway up, wreathed in more vines and leaves. Each face had a different expression: one smiling, one angry, one wide-eyed, and one sleepy. They weren’t perfect but were better than anything I’d ever seen. As he’d said, the imperfections somehow made them better, more real.
He sanded them gently with a sponge with fine-grain sandpaper on one side, stopping occasionally to tweak details with a set of small chisels hanging from the edge of the bench. My stomach growled in a fair imitation of an angry bull, and I jerked my head up, realizing I’d been nodding off on my stool.
“Sounds like the dinner bell,” he said. “Clean this up, and I’ll get started on lunch.”
By the time I finished sweeping, a huge cheeseburger with everything was waiting for me on the porch. I made it through
the burger, but just barely.
I woke up hours later but had no idea how many hours since I couldn’t find any clocks, but the shadows were long in the yard. The shop was locked, and Joseph wasn’t around. The truck was still there, so he probably hadn’t gone far. I walked over to the edge of the cliff to take in the view of the riverbank where I’d spent so much of the winter and spring.
It wasn’t very impressive. It was pretty, I supposed, but no signs of my time there were visible. The new clothes I was wearing somehow didn’t compare to the crusty rags I’d had in the cave. My socks and new boots itched. My freshly washed face and clean hair paled somehow beside the shaggy mess I’d had when Joseph came for me. Somehow, I’d seemed cooler when I was miserable and dirty. I wondered about the grave and who was caring for it since I was gone. Somebody needed to clear away the leaves and sticks and rearrange the bits of rock and bone I’d laid out. I felt I’d deserted a friend—again—as if I’d lost something vital each minute I was away.
“Missing it already?” Joseph asked from behind me.
I jumped so hard that I almost went over the edge. A rocklike hand grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the drop. I found finger-shaped bruises there the next day.
Blushing, I said, “No. I-I was just thinking.”
He nodded and stood beside me, looking down at the dirty water.
“Good place for it,” he said. “Don’t overdo it, though. Screws with your sleep.” He looked me in the eye and smiled. “You did good work today. Most kids your age don’t have the patience to make a hundred perfect cuts. Tomorrow, I’ll show you what they’re for.”
He turned and walked back to the house, and I followed at a distance, wondering where he’d been in bare feet, a little envious at how he walked over the rocks and gravel in his yard like it was carpet. There were sticktights on his jeans and the tail of his shirt. A leaf clung to his collar, and a tiny twig nestled in his hair.
A Portion for Foxes Page 6