In the Wild Light

by Jeff Zentner

  “Then be her friend. Maybe she’ll come around to you. But if she don’t, that’s all right too. She can still bless your life.”

  “I’d rather she bless my lips with hers,” I say, and Papaw laughs himself into a minute-long coughing fit.

  We celebrate a quiet, peaceful Christmas. We sleep late. Delaney and I help Mamaw make buttermilk biscuits and sawmill gravy with country ham for breakfast.

  There aren’t many presents to open—it hasn’t been that kind of year. I get a couple of shirts and a journal for writing. In the toe of my stocking is a little black bear Papaw carved for me. “You talking about poetry gave me the itch. Took up whittling again since you been gone. This one’s about the only thing that turned out,” he says, his proud face betraying his attempt at self-effacement.

  Except for a few minutes when I drive her to take presents to her half brothers and wait outside in my truck, Delaney spends every minute of Christmas Day with us. She and Papaw start watching Longmire just after breakfast and hardly budge throughout the day. Aunt Betsy and Mitzi come by and help us make Christmas dinner. Aunt Betsy says I carry myself differently now, with more confidence. She and Mitzi marvel over how I’ve bulked up from crew. I don’t see either, but I take the compliments.

  I spend maybe an hour that day without thinking about Vi once, which is the longest I’ve gone since Thanksgiving weekend. Sometimes you get used to hurting, the way you acclimate to excessively cold or hot water, and then it’s the absence of it you notice.

  We sit around the dinner table. Delaney and I tell them about New York. Aunt Betsy says she and Mitzi are planning on going there someday to see musicals. They ask us for recommendations on places to go. Delaney plugs the natural history museum. I tell them the High Line is a beautiful walk. I don’t tell them it’s also a good place to get your heart turned into roadkill.

  One day, just before we have to go back to school, it dawns a clear, clean fifty-seven-degree day like you sometimes get during the winter here. It’s the kind of warm that tells you that by afternoon, the clouds will have rolled in. After sundown, the rain will start and the temperature will drop steadily. You’ll awake to a dusting of snow on the ground. But for now, it’s pleasant, so Delaney and I go out on the river together. It feels good, like it always did.

  “Back where it all started,” Delaney says, her paddle resting on her knees while I steer.

  “Yeah.”

  “Gotta admit the last few months haven’t been boring.”

  “No. Not boring.”

  We’re quiet for a while.

  “I miss Vi,” I say for no particular reason.

  “Here we go.” Delaney looks back so I’m sure to see and almost tips the canoe with the force of her eye roll.

  “Just saying how I feel.”

  “I know it sucks but you gotta move on, dude.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Good thing I’m not just saying it, then,” Delaney says, trailing her fingertips in the water and flicking away droplets.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m more familiar with unreturned love than you know, Cash. And I’m telling you that you can survive it. Even though it hurts.”

  “Anyone who doesn’t love you back is an idiot.”

  “Yeah. They are sometimes.”

  “Speaking of, you seen your mama yet?”

  Delaney scoffs. “You recall me asking you for a ride to her place?”

  “No.”

  She stares downriver. “When you took me to give Noah and Braxton their presents, their dad told me she hooked up with a new dude who works an oil field in North Dakota. So that’s where she is.” She looks at me with a wistful expression, her amber eyes distant. “You’re all I’ve got now. You. Pep. Your mamaw. Noah and Braxton have already started forgetting about me while I’m gone. Y’all are it.”

  Delaney faces front again and we drift along for a while in silence. I stare at her back. She’s right about Vi. I do need to get over her. Vi and I were never supposed to be more than friends. It really sucks that Delaney and I couldn’t get together in Sawyer because I was her only choice and so the stakes were too high, and we’ll never get together now that Delaney is out of Sawyer because now she has tons of choices at Middleford—guys way smarter than me. I’d love to have a girlfriend someday who I’m as close with as Delaney. I want someone who knows me like she does—all the ways I’m weak and strong—and still loves me in spite of and also because of it. That would be great.

  It’s one of those tranquil days when the river reflects the brisk blue of the December sky and the pale winter sun, and the wind ripples the face of the water like brushstrokes on a painting. You look at it all and you hope maybe there’ll come a day when no trouble seems very important anymore and this is all you see when your mind goes still.

  The night before I leave, Papaw and I sit on the porch for one last time. He says it’s okay to love someone who doesn’t love you back—that’s a love story too and he doesn’t care what anyone says otherwise. He tells me there’s someone in this world for me—maybe someone I know already, maybe not—but someone.

  He tells me about his and Mamaw’s honeymoon. How they couldn’t afford much of one, so they went down the road to Gatlinburg and got a cheap motel. One night they went out dancing until two a.m. and stopped in at an all-night pancake house on their way back.

  He said they were so loopy and love-drunk they started drawing faces on their pancakes in ketchup and made each other crack up so hard they got kicked out. The memory makes him chuckle himself into a fit of wheezing and coughing. When he recovers, he says, “Tell you what, Mickey Mouse. You find that right someone, and ever’ minute you spend with them is like a Hawaiian vacation. She’s out there. You’ll figure it out.”

  He’s never been to Hawaii.

  It feels like he’s bequeathing me an inheritance of the only wealth he possesses—his memories, his quiet joys.

  * * *

  At the bus station to see Delaney and me off, Papaw struggles to walk even a short distance. Mamaw and I help him as best we can.

  Mamaw and Papaw take turns hugging Delaney. Papaw says, “Don’t you forget that promise you made me, Tess.”

  “I won’t,” Delaney says. “Still working on it.”

  “I believe you,” he says.

  I hug Mamaw goodbye. “Take care of him,” I say. “And yourself. Don’t work too hard.”

  “I can promise to take care of him, but that’s all. I love you, darling.”

  “I love you, Mamaw.” We hug. Her slate-colored hair smells like cinnamon rolls and roses. I wonder for a second at what her life would be like if she had what Tripp’s or Vi’s parents do. If fate weren’t an insect-bored tree limb waiting to fall on her at the first stiff wind. If her world grew just a little greener. Would the same lines surround her eyes and mouth? It’s hard now to imagine her so young and carefree that faces drawn on pancakes in ketchup could make her giddy with laughter.

  Before I board the bus, Papaw and I hug. He smells like eucalyptus, wintergreen, and wood varnish. I can feel the roughness of his breath and his frailty under my hands.

  “Keep working hard up there, Mickey Mouse,” he says. “We’ll miss you.”

  “I love you, Papaw.”

  “Love you too, Mickey Mouse.”

  From my seat, I watch them through the window. They look small, standing there holding hands in the cold and the stink of diesel, bundled in the coats they’ve worn for as long as I can remember. I know they won’t leave until the bus is gone from view. Papaw waves feebly.

  Tears stream down my face as I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever see him standing. Or if I’ll ever see him at all.

  Delaney reaches over and brushes a tear from my cheek and holds it up to the light of the window like she’s appraising a diamond. “Tears
have the same salinity as seawater.”

  “You told me that once when you were crying,” I say after I’ve had a moment to pull myself together.

  “Cash, can we go for a quick walk?” Vi asks as we’re finishing dinner.

  My heart stutters. She’s going to tell me she couldn’t stop thinking about me and we’re meant to be together. But that’s not the timbre of her voice. I’m still interested.

  I meet Alex’s eyes as I get up from the table. They’re outwardly neutral, but I know him well enough to catch the cheerleading in them. Delaney doesn’t meet my eyes.

  Vi and I leave the dining hall. She carries a bag.

  “Can we go to the lake?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  We get to the lake and sit. I think about coming here the first night we met. And after the football game. The days when there was still possibility.

  There’s a prolonged awkward silence. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together since New York. We make eye contact and quickly break it.

  We both start to talk simultaneously.

  “You go,” Vi says.

  “No, you,” I say.

  She sets the bag she brought on her lap. Then hands it to me. “Here’s your Christmas gift.”

  I hold the bag without opening it.

  Vi nudges me playfully. Like she used to. The way that made it feel like she was looking for excuses to touch me. “Open it.”

  I don’t want to. I prefer to live in this moment of possibility. For all I know, when I open this bag, I’ll find a cross-stitch that says, I changed my mind over Christmas, and now my heart belongs to you, Cash Pruitt. But I open it. It’s a book by Adélia Prado called The Alphabet in the Park. I leaf through it quickly. It’s poetry. And it’s beautiful.

  “She’s one of the best Brazilian poets,” Vi says, beaming.

  “I feel bad because I didn’t get you anything. I didn’t know if it’d be weird or something.”

  “I’ll tell you the only present I want from you.”

  My stomach tightens. “Sure.”

  “I want to be friends again.”

  “We’re friends.” I say it half-heartedly, knowing I’m busted.

  “Not like before. I have saudade for you.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you feel that. It’s just…hard.”

  She stands and extends her arms. “I’m tired of no hugs. Me da um abraço, cara.”

  I stand. “What’s that mean?”

  “Give me a hug, man.”

  I do. We embrace for a long time, swaying gently back and forth. I think she’s about to break the hug, but she’s only repositioning to hold on to me tighter, laying her head on my chest. I rest my cheek on the top of her head and breathe in her warm-sugar-and-vanilla scent until I’m light-headed.

  I missed her so much. Even though she was always around.

  “You’ve been acting like Bucky Barnes,” she murmurs. “Being very…mmm…I don’t know the word.”

  “Sad?”

  “No.”

  “Mad?”

  “Like you’re carrying something heavy in your heart.”

  “Brooding?”

  “Yes! Brooding,” she says in a deep, ominous voice.

  We laugh, still clinging to each other.

  “You cold?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Wanna go back inside?”

  “Not yet. A little longer.”

  When we finally stop hugging and sit back beside each other, she says, “Read me a poem from your new book, since you won’t show me any of yours.”

  I leaf through the book until I see a poem with a line about apples. I read that one to her.

  I know this now: My life is better with her in it, even if it’s not how I’d wish.

  Alex sits atop a dryer across from me, kicking his legs restlessly, occasionally hitting the dryer with a hollow bwong, while I iron. Something is off with him. He usually emanates cheery, unflappable confidence. The kind that makes you believe him when he says he’s going to be president someday.

  “You been quiet,” I say.

  “Chillin’,” he replies unpersuasively.

  “Yeah?”

  He scratches at a spot on the thigh of his pants, sniffles, and nods.

  I set my iron on end. “You ain’t chillin’, man.”

  “Naw,” he says quietly. “Not really.”

  “Is it Alara?”

  “Dude, no. I forgot to tell you she slid into my DMs again last night after I commented on her video. I’d left just like a benign comment.”

  “She’s into you.” I pause. “But I may not be the most reliable judge of who’s into who.”

  “All good, bro.” Another wan smile.

  “If it’s not a woman, then what?”

  Alex inhales deeply and sighs it out. “My parents called last night, super upset—”

  “Dude, you got one A-minus and the rest straight A’s.”

  “No, they already lit me up for that. Trust. This relates to something other than my abysmal academic performance.”

  “Then?” I hold up the shirt I’ve been ironing, inspecting for wrinkles.

  “They told me ICE raided a Korean market back home and arrested a bunch of undocumented people from my church.”

  “Like, Korean people?”

  “Yeah. People don’t realize there’s lots of undocumented Koreans in America.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, so like hardworking, churchgoing people who just wanted a life in America getting rounded up. My dad’s friend Young-jin. My friend Becca’s dad.” Alex is not a contemptful or angry person, but contempt and anger permeate his voice.

  “Damn, dude. I hate that shit for them.”

  “Yeah, well,” Alex says, head bowed, toying with a piece of lint. “You know the worst part?” He lifts his head to meet my eyes. His are filled with hurt. “I prayed nonstop for this to never happen. Every night. Asking God to keep and protect them. Let them build a life. Let them live in joy with their families. Let them walk in light and peace. That’s all. I didn’t pray for them to get rich or never have trials. I didn’t get greedy. Now this.” He starts to say something and checks himself. Then he says, “Feels like God isn’t listening, you know?”

  I nod. “Felt that a lot.”

  “Thing is, I don’t know which I prefer. To think that God is real and ignores me or to think God’s not real at all.” He takes a deep breath through his nose.

  I’ve never seen Alex look so despondent. “I’ve heard people say God sometimes doesn’t answer prayers because he has a different plan for someone,” I say.

  “You believe it?” Alex’s dryer buzzes, and he opens it and starts unloading his clothes into a basket.

  “I don’t know, man.” Then an irresistible urge comes over me, out of nowhere. “Can I tell you something that stays between us?”

  “I’m like a vault, bro.”

  There’s still time to turn back. “My mama—” I almost say OD’d, but I already feel too naked; I can’t tell him about the precise circumstances of her death. “Passed away when I was thirteen. My dad wasn’t around. That’s why I’m so close with my grandparents. They took me in after.”

  He’s quiet for a long time. “Wow, Cash. I’m sorry.”

  “Not exactly faith-promoting.”

  “I wouldn’t think.”

  “It still hurts to have lost her. But without the stuff that led to that, I never would have met Delaney. And then you and I wouldn’t have ever become friends. So, like, who’s to say, you know?”

  “I’ll keep praying for you, bro.”

  “You pray for me?”

  “Course,” Alex says.

  “You say that like everyone prays for their friends.�
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  “I do.”

  “Dang, man. Praying for the people at your church. Praying for me.”

  “My prayers get pretty long. Guess there are worse ways I could be spending time. Like…peeing…out windows.”

  “Peeing out windows?”

  Alex shrugs. “I dunno.”

  “Yeah, that’s not really a way people spend time,” I say. “You pray for me with my whole Vi situation?”

  “I asked that everything would work out for the best,” Alex says.

  I punch him in the arm playfully. “Couldn’t have just straight-up prayed for me to get with her?”

  “Haven’t we established my praying results in disaster?” Alex says with a rueful laugh.

  “Still, man, I’ll keep accepting your prayers.”

  “I even pray for ex-girlfriends.”

  “Serious?”

  “Mostly that they’ll never find anyone cooler than me ever again.” We bust up.

  “Can’t get enough of those unanswered prayers, can you?”

  Alex, making eye contact with me, grabs a jockstrap from his clean basket, twirls it around his index finger a few times, and pulls it over his head with a flourish, still making eye contact. Then he strikes a pensive, smoldering expression, rubbing his chin and flexing his biceps. He performs a fashion-runway-style strut down the aisle of washing machines and dryers and tries to execute a spin turn, but catches his heel and stumbles into a washer.

  We laugh until we’re both hiccuping.

  “You win, dude,” I say. “Your exes will never find someone cooler.”

  We keep chatting and laughing, the air thick with steam and the sharp metallic tang of hot steel on washed cotton. As we prepare to lug our bags back to our rooms, I say to Alex—and not as a joke—“Hey, dude, not to add to your list, but can you pray for my papaw?”

  Alex looks at me and smiles warmly. He claps his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Already on it, bro.”

  I’ve spent the last ten minutes gazing at my ghostly reflection in the window glass of the science center, as it seemingly levitates in the January night behind it. It’s a poetic image in theory—the pale image of yourself alone in darkness but still floating. But I’m not finding any entry point. The empty page is daring me to throw the first punch. My writing hand is shrinking from the challenge.