In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [46]
My mother wrapped her hands in the dishtowel she carried and pressed the cool cloth to her lips, then looked at me. “Go find your brother. He didn’t come down.”
She took my empty bottle and went into the kitchen. I hesitated for a moment, studying the shelter, then walked up the path to the outhouse. My brother was inside, reading a Superman comic.
“Mom wants you,” I said, and watched him rise, still reading, and disappear down the trail.
I stepped behind the outhouse to the tree where weeks before I had carved a heart around the initials “KB” and “LL,” a secret promise to Luke that as the tree grew, so would our love. But the letters and heart were gone, the bark stripped and weeping. No, no! Why would anyone do this? I shook my head, trying to hold back the tears and rush of heat I felt rising in my chest. Greg did it! Greg and my stupid cousins.
I ran across the bridge to the house, slamming through the door. My brother sat at the table, the comic in one hand, a peanut butter sandwich in the other. I looked from him to my mother, then burst into sobs, unable to think of any word that would convey to them the depth of my pain.
My mother followed me to my room, where I threw myself on my bed and buried my face in the pillow.
“It’s okay, Sister. You don’t have to feel bad. Uncle Barry just doesn’t understand.”
“It’s not that.” I turned my face toward her, let her pull the strands of hair from the corners of my mouth.
“Well, what is it, honey? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just not that.”
She patted me on the back, then walked quietly from the room. I lay for a long time, feeling sick with betrayal and confusion. Why couldn’t things just be normal? Why was everything all wrong?
After a while, I rose and tiptoed out the door. I gave the shelter a wide berth, circling behind it, into the deeper woods. I didn’t feel like carving another heart. Instead, I took one of the trails that connected the old skidroads and walked aimlessly, not caring where it took me, until I stumbled into the clearing where Gerty Buck’s house sat, older than ours, never painted, the cedar shingle siding weathered to black. I stopped, surprised. Gerty’s son, Ned, knelt only a few feet from me, polishing his motorcycle.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” He was older than I was but not much taller. His sandy hair, unlike Luke’s, was cut short and uneven, and his eyes were an unremarkable green. He smiled at me, and I found myself moving toward him and the bike. It seemed natural, the way I ran my hand over the black leather seat and along the shiny gas tank. I felt a little thrill knowing he was watching.
“Want to take a ride?” he asked. I looked past him to his house, where I knew his mother sat, knitting an endless supply of pillow covers and afghans, which she sold at the community bazaars. Mr. Buck had died years before, crushed when his bulldozer rolled.
“Come on. Let’s just go to the tracks and back.”
He was already on, gunning the engine. I straddled the seat behind him, hesitating only a moment before circling his waist with my arms. He smelled like the forest, like pine and woodsmoke.
We started down the road, then turned onto a wide trail. I leaned out just a little, just enough to see where we were headed, just enough to catch the wind in my hair.
When we reached the track, he turned the bike and headed back to his house.
“Can you take me home?” I hollered, hoping he could hear me over the roar.
He turned his head and nodded. A few minutes later, we emerged from the woods into my yard. I hoped someone would see me, seated on a rumbling bike behind a boy who seemed happy to have me huddled against him.
My mother came to the door, curious at first, but when she saw Ned and his motorcycle and me on back, windblown and flush with freedom, her mouth settled into a tight line. I was pleased.
We chatted for awhile, the three of us, my mother asking after his, Ned innocent and polite as pie. When my brother came to stare big-eyed at the cherry-red Honda, I felt a surge of pride.