turned sharply to glance at the shop clock. 4:20.
âI even tried calling to say I was going to be a little
late.â
Four-twenty. Later, he would wonder where the time
had gone. How he had gotten so involved in a simple engine
rebuild that he had lost track of the hours? Had lost track
of Brian?
âHeâs probably in the house,â he said, gesturing toward
the back porch. âI told him to be back by 3:30 to get cleaned
up for you.â
But Brian wasnât in the house.
Brian had first met Carly several weeks before, early on a
Saturday morning.
His dad had still been asleep when Brian had gotten
up. He had moved around the house as quietly as he could,
dressing, going to the bathroom, loading his knapsack. At
a time when most of the kids from school would be settling
in front of the TV for a morning of cartoons, Brian poured
a large measure of Cheerios into a plastic sandwich bag and
crammed it into his jacket pocket. Pulling on his boots, he
let himself out the back door and set out across the field for
the woods.
Just behind the old barn, the spaces between the trees
were pretty clear: it was easy to walk through, easy to find
a place to sit and munch on a handful of cereal. The air was
bright and clear, filled with the sound of birds. From where
he sat, Brian could look out at the back of his fatherâs shop,
the backyard, the house, and the road beyond it. The whole
time he was sitting there, he didnât see a single car pass.
Farther back into the woods, it grew darker and quieter.
He zipped up his coat against the chill. After he crossed the
old fence-line, Brian stayed close to the few beaten trails.
Off the paths, the undergrowth was thick and tough. It
changed, too, depending on where he was in the woods.
Sometimes he would be in the midst of a swollen, twisted
stand of blackberry vines. Other times heâd pull his arms
in to avoid the trunks and branches of a patch of devilâs
club, the spines of which would pierce you right through
your clothes, bury themselves deep in your skin and keep
working their way in.
Deeper in the woods, it was almost silent. What birds
there were flew quietly and alone. The loudest sounds were
Brianâs breath, the scrunch of his boots on the earth, and
the rustle of leaves or branches that he pushed out of his
way with a stick.
Sometimes he heard a scrambling in the underbrush
as an animal dodged away. When this happened, he would
stop, stand stock-still and listen, his eyes following his ears
as he tried to find the animal, to see what kind it was.
He was never scared, only curious, and he could
wait, motionless, for an eternity, just for a glimpse of
something wild. He wasnât disappointed if it turned out
to be a squirrel â he loved squirrels â but he treasured the
memory of the day he saw the yellow eyes of the coyote
looking at him through the bramble, the time he had come
upon the family of raccoons at play in the dimming of the
late afternoon, the day he thought he had seen a bear, the
crashing in the underbrush too long and too loud to have
been caused by anything smaller.
He hadnât told his father about the bear.
He didnât tell his father much about his days in the
woods. It wasnât that his father wouldnât understand: he
knew some of the trails he walked had been cut by his father
and his uncles when they were boys. And it wasnât that he
was afraid he would be reined in, that the revelation he had
seen a bear â maybe â would result in him being kept to
the yard or the open early woods where the cows used to
graze. That thought hadnât even occurred to him.
No, he didnât talk about the woods because to talk about
them would have meant sharing them.
The woods were something that belonged to Brian, a rare
thing he didnât have to share, a rare place where he could
truly be himself, where he could watch the slow progress of
bugs along a branch, or study the skeletal
âI even tried calling to say I was going to be a little
late.â
Four-twenty. Later, he would wonder where the time
had gone. How he had gotten so involved in a simple engine
rebuild that he had lost track of the hours? Had lost track
of Brian?
âHeâs probably in the house,â he said, gesturing toward
the back porch. âI told him to be back by 3:30 to get cleaned
up for you.â
But Brian wasnât in the house.
Brian had first met Carly several weeks before, early on a
Saturday morning.
His dad had still been asleep when Brian had gotten
up. He had moved around the house as quietly as he could,
dressing, going to the bathroom, loading his knapsack. At
a time when most of the kids from school would be settling
in front of the TV for a morning of cartoons, Brian poured
a large measure of Cheerios into a plastic sandwich bag and
crammed it into his jacket pocket. Pulling on his boots, he
let himself out the back door and set out across the field for
the woods.
Just behind the old barn, the spaces between the trees
were pretty clear: it was easy to walk through, easy to find
a place to sit and munch on a handful of cereal. The air was
bright and clear, filled with the sound of birds. From where
he sat, Brian could look out at the back of his fatherâs shop,
the backyard, the house, and the road beyond it. The whole
time he was sitting there, he didnât see a single car pass.
Farther back into the woods, it grew darker and quieter.
He zipped up his coat against the chill. After he crossed the
old fence-line, Brian stayed close to the few beaten trails.
Off the paths, the undergrowth was thick and tough. It
changed, too, depending on where he was in the woods.
Sometimes he would be in the midst of a swollen, twisted
stand of blackberry vines. Other times heâd pull his arms
in to avoid the trunks and branches of a patch of devilâs
club, the spines of which would pierce you right through
your clothes, bury themselves deep in your skin and keep
working their way in.
Deeper in the woods, it was almost silent. What birds
there were flew quietly and alone. The loudest sounds were
Brianâs breath, the scrunch of his boots on the earth, and
the rustle of leaves or branches that he pushed out of his
way with a stick.
Sometimes he heard a scrambling in the underbrush
as an animal dodged away. When this happened, he would
stop, stand stock-still and listen, his eyes following his ears
as he tried to find the animal, to see what kind it was.
He was never scared, only curious, and he could
wait, motionless, for an eternity, just for a glimpse of
something wild. He wasnât disappointed if it turned out
to be a squirrel â he loved squirrels â but he treasured the
memory of the day he saw the yellow eyes of the coyote
looking at him through the bramble, the time he had come
upon the family of raccoons at play in the dimming of the
late afternoon, the day he thought he had seen a bear, the
crashing in the underbrush too long and too loud to have
been caused by anything smaller.
He hadnât told his father about the bear.
He didnât tell his father much about his days in the
woods. It wasnât that his father wouldnât understand: he
knew some of the trails he walked had been cut by his father
and his uncles when they were boys. And it wasnât that he
was afraid he would be reined in, that the revelation he had
seen a bear â maybe â would result in him being kept to
the yard or the open early woods where the cows used to
graze. That thought hadnât even occurred to him.
No, he didnât talk about the woods because to talk about
them would have meant sharing them.
The woods were something that belonged to Brian, a rare
thing he didnât have to share, a rare place where he could
truly be himself, where he could watch the slow progress of
bugs along a branch, or study the skeletal
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