These Silent Woods: A Novel(8)

The year before, we’d sat at the campfire, Jake and me, on a night not unlike this.

He’d poked the embers with a stick. “You know if I don’t come, one of these years, it’s because I can’t.”

I’d told him I knew.

“What I mean is that I’m not going to die of old age,” he’d said, and then he’d grunted. “That’s the way my neurologist put it.”

“Doctors and their bedside manner.”

“Well, it’s sort of good to know, don’t you think?”

Had he held my gaze, then? Had he stared at the fire, avoiding eye contact? Because now, a year later, I can’t help but look back on that conversation and wonder if maybe Jake was trying to tell me something. Maybe he had a premonition, maybe there was something about his situation that he just couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, maybe it was a cry for help, even. What was it I’d said to him when I’d helped him into the house that night? Don’t go dying on us. Which in hindsight feels insensitive, I realize. Selfish. The thought of him alone, suffering, or worse. The one and only person in this world I could fully trust, who was there for me despite everything that had happened. After all he’d done for us. And I couldn’t help him. Couldn’t even be there. I kick loose a piece of gravel. Pick it up, grip it tight in my palm, cold.

I’ve always known this was a possibility, that at some point we’d need to fend entirely for ourselves. For years I’ve been trying to get more out of the garden but the truth is, the soil is bad out here, rocky and acidic, and the additional food we’ve been able to grow—it’s still not enough. I’ve mapped out routes to stores, calculated the timing, fine-tuned my annual list. I’ve just hoped the day when I’d need to act on those plans wouldn’t come.

Thing is, I did go out, early on. The first time, it was just to call Jake at the nearest gas station pay phone. We grabbed a few items inside the store since we were there. Milk, bread, a jar of peanut butter. The second trip went smoothly enough. But the third one went so poorly I can hardly bring myself to think about it. I haven’t gone out since.

Finch was about twenty months old and far too squirrelly to take along. She’d recently learned to walk, and she had this thing where she would kick and bite and scream no, no, no! any time I tried to pick her up. I mean a full-on tantrum. Taking her to a store would almost certainly result in a scene, and I couldn’t risk drawing the attention of bystanders, especially when everyone knows the first thing that comes to a person’s mind when they see a man scooping up a kid who’s carrying on like that. So, after weighing the risks, I decided to put her down for a nap in the playpen and then sneak out for a quick trip. She was a reliable sleeper in those days, so I knew I had a solid ninety-minute window. I was back in seventy and feeling good, but when I pulled up in the Bronco, there was Scotland on the front porch, holding Finch on his lap. She was snuggled up and sleeping.

I almost lost it, then. Really. Don’t know that I’ve ever been so close. I had the Ruger in my pocket and I yanked it out and rushed to them and grabbed Scotland by the collar. Finch startled awake and began crying, and I scooped her out of his arms. I held her, but she immediately started pushing to be let down. I set her on the ground and stepped closer to Scotland.

“What the hell is going on here?” I leaned in close and could smell the wintergreen and woodsmoke. Crow was perched on the gutter and began to hover and caw, and Finch pointed and squealed.

“Easy, Cooper. Easy. Just lending a hand, that’s all.”

“Don’t give me that. She was fine, she was sleeping.”

He shook his head, adjusting his shirt. Then he held my eyes in that way of his. “She wasn’t.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I was here. On the porch.”

I ran my thumb along the stock of the Ruger. Heart roaring, the edges of my vision beginning to blur.

Scotland shrugged. “I saw you leave, alone. I came down here to keep an eye on her. Thought maybe you were too proud to ask, but I figured I’d go ahead and do you a favor. And it’s a good thing I did. Because she woke up and climbed right out of that little contraption in there, quick as a whip.” He folded his hands on his lap. “Cooper, you can’t leave a child her age unattended. It’s just not safe.” His scar flickered silver in the sunlight. “Lucky I was here.”

I clenched my fist, palms soaked. A result of fear but also rage. “How’d she get out here on the porch, with you?” I was afraid to know the answer. Did he have a key? Did he break in?

He grinned. “Well, I confess that was a bit difficult. It took some cajoling. But we played a game and eventually I got her to let me in.”



* * *



I’ll never know what really happened that day when I was out. Still burns me to think back on it because I never should’ve left her. Well, after that, the next time Jake came, I sent him home with a list, and that’s how we’ve been getting our supplies ever since. I fling the rock hard, way off into the dark, wait for the sound of it hitting whatever it is it collides with. I head inside. Slide both locks, prop the shovel. I carry Finch to bed, blow out the candle, and then tumble into sleep myself.



* * *



At lunch on the fifteenth, I decide to tell Finch. I figure it’s time to release her from waiting because I can tell it’s driving her crazy, listening for his truck, watching for it to appear in the yard. Hoping. It’s just not fair, her thinking he’ll arrive any minute, and me knowing that if he didn’t come on the fourteenth, he isn’t coming at all.