The Sadness of Spirits

by Aimee Pogson

  “My stitches,” the boy says.

  “Your stitches are just about healed,” replies Uncle Rob. “Let me give you some life advice. Don’t complain when you’re hurt. You don’t want to show other people weakness.”

  The boy feels like he should be grateful to Uncle Rob for sharing advice with him in the way that his father would or his grandfather would, but there is no kindness in Uncle Rob’s voice, and before the boy can reply, Uncle Rob has already turned back to the wood and is rapidly lowering yet another log into the boy’s aching arms and he is pulling himself together under the weight and his abdomen is beginning to feel misplaced, as if part of his skin has slid into a place it’s not supposed to be, and to distract himself he thinks of the caterpillar huddled in the grass, prophesizing the winter, and the grasshoppers hopping far and free. He wonders what that feeling is like, to not be under the control of the moms and Uncle Robs of the world.

  Then they are done and this is one thing the boy is just beginning to learn: some bad things come to an end—the ache of surgery, a dreaded afternoon of carrying wood—while some bad things do not—his desire to be grown up, for instance, and the way he misses his dad. Uncle Rob closes the truck bed, and without saying a word to him—no thank you, no good job—he goes into the house presumably to take a shower and nap before work, leaving the boy to his own devices once again. The boy takes one step toward the backyard, but in the sudden exhaustion of carrying the wood, he sits down in the grass beside the woodpile, closes his eyes, and listens to the bird calls, the sound of the wind rustling the trees. Without meaning to, he is remembering Uncle Rob in bed, the sheet drawn over his body, the soft breath coming out of the O of his mouth. He could take a pillow in his hand, push it down over his mouth, and then lean on it with all of his weight. He could light a match and lock the door.

  None of this is realistic, though. Just fantasies he would never act on. Instead, he opens his eyes and studies the woodpile towering over him. So much wood from so many trees, all of them solid and tall and stately. He raises a hand and lets his fingers meander over the bark. Even though the trees are dead, they will still retain their shape, their being for many seasons before eventually giving way to burrowing ants and other bugs. He carefully pulls a strip of bark from a log, examining it in his hand, this small piece of something so much larger than himself, before placing it in his mouth and chewing. It goes from hard to gummy, and he swallows it with some difficulty and then stands up. He has to think small if he’s going to get back at Uncle Rob. He has to outsmart him.

  There are plenty of gravel rocks in the driveway, and he is careful to select one with a sharp point. He moves to the front end of the truck, selecting a place slightly over the driver’s side wheel well, and presses the rock deep into the paint. He hesitates for a moment, using his laser vision to try to imagine all the consequences and repercussions, but all he can really think of is how this will affect Uncle Rob. The moment he goes to open the door and sees the scratch in the paint. The hopeless feeling of knowing his truck is forever ruined.

  The boy grips the rock, willing himself to move, but then he can’t. Uncle Rob will know that it was him, and he’ll get in trouble. Besides, he knows better than to damage other people’s things.

  He tosses the rock back into the driveway and heads inside. There will be other ways. He just has to keep thinking.

  The boy is invisible during dinner, which doesn’t surprise him. Uncle Rob is focused on his plate, trying to eat fast before he goes to work, and his mom carries on a conversation mostly with herself. “I saw Tina at the grocery store,” she says. “Did you know that she’s expecting another baby?”

  “Is that so?” says Uncle Rob, and continues to shovel food.

  “That will make three. A full house.”

  The boy wonders if his mom is planning another baby and if he will have to share his room, but he doesn’t think about it long because she is talking about Grandma and Grandpa and how they will be coming over for dinner on Sunday and does Uncle Rob want to have ham or roast beef? Chocolate cake or lemon meringue pie?

  The boy’s attention wanders. His stomach is churning, and he wonders if it’s the bark. Maybe the tree was poisonous and the poison is slowly seeping from his stomach to all his other organs. He imagines himself growing tired and collapsing, maybe when he’s doing the dishes or maybe when he’s brushing his teeth for bed. Either way his mom will come running and lift him up as she did the day he stepped on the nail. She’ll drive him straight to the hospital and sit weeping in the waiting room while she waits for the doctor’s verdict. And Uncle Rob will be there, too, sorry for the way he treated the boy just that afternoon.

  “Chet,” his mom is saying. “Chet, we’re talking to you.”

  He looks up and it seems that only his mom is talking to him since Uncle Rob is still focused on his plate. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I was saying that someone has a birthday coming up.” She smiles at him. “Any idea what you want?”

  He knows exactly what he wants, but he can’t come up with the right words. Instead, he thinks up a more acceptable answer. “An insect collecting kit,” he says. “And a tent.”

  “An insect collecting kit?” she repeats. “What is that?”

  “I saw it in a magazine. It has a net and a jar to keep insects in and a magnifying glass.”

  “Do you really need to buy a kit for that?” Uncle Rob asks, looking up. “I’m sure you can put that together from junk around the house.”

  “We’ll think about it,” his mom says, but the boy can hardly pay attention. He is imagining foraging the yard with his dad, putting grasshoppers in a jar.

  “Now, why do you need a tent?” his mom continues. “You know the woods are off-limits.”

  He forces his mind back to the present, to his mom’s inquisitive look, Uncle Rob’s steely gaze. He’s pretty sure he’s never done anything seriously wrong, but Uncle Rob still looks at him like he’s about to burn the house down, or worse, whatever that might be. “I know the woods are off-limits,” he says. “I just thought that maybe I could sleep in the backyard when it’s warm out.”

  His mom turns to Uncle Rob and he shrugs. “I don’t see any harm in it. If he wants to sleep on the ground, then let him sleep on the ground.”

  “We’ll see,” his mom says. “No promises.” Which is how it is every birthday and Christmas. The boy doesn’t get his hopes up for anything.

  He hesitates now and there it is, the question he really wants to know the answer to slowly bubbling to the surface. Before he can hold back it is out, breathlessly, hanging on the air between them. “Will Dad be coming?”

  His mom looks at him carefully. “No,” she says, finally. “I don’t think he’ll be coming.”

  “Why not?” He knows he shouldn’t push, but he does anyway.

  Her mouth opens and then closes, but she doesn’t answer. “Tell him the truth,” Uncle Rob says. “He’s old enough to know. Your dad left the state. He won’t be driving back just for your birthday.”

  The boy’s head buzzes with this new information. He left the state? Where did he go? Why didn’t he say where he was going? “Do you know where he is?”

  Uncle Rob looks at the boy’s mom. “Tennessee. He moved there with his girlfriend.”

  He has a girlfriend, too. And from there the boy’s imagination fills with possibilities. A girlfriend can mean other kids: other boys, other girls, a completely different family, and he has been left behind.

  “It doesn’t mean your dad doesn’t care,” his mom is saying, but he hardly hears her. His dad could have taken him. He is sure of this. He could have swooped in and taken him along because there is nothing his dad can’t do, but he chose not to. He chose to leave him alone with his mom and Uncle Rob.

  “Things just change. And he has to make his own life.”

  The boy was supposed to be his life. And his mom. But Uncle Rob had to come over on the afternoons and his
mom had to let him in and now their lives have been ruined and his dad is gone and won’t even come over for his birthday. It’s their fault, he thinks. It’s their fault his dad is gone, and his stomach churns at the thought of this and he wants to get up and run, leave this silent dinner table and the creaking house far behind, but the rules dictate that leaving the table before everyone is done eating is forbidden, and so he draws all these feelings in until he is sinking, sinking into himself, and his mom has resumed her cheery voice, which he really hates sometimes. “You can still have a nice birthday dinner,” she’s saying. “What would you like?”

  “Spaghetti,” he says, not because he cares but because it’s something to say.

  “Spaghetti, please,” corrects Uncle Rob.

  “Spaghetti, please.”

  “And a chocolate cake?”

  “A chocolate cake, please.”

  He has gone from himself to a wind-up version of a boy, and he wishes the bark poison would finally take effect, but there is no rescue until Uncle Rob takes the last slow bite and he is finally free to wash the dishes and take out the garbage and disappear to his room, where he takes the Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and flicks it open and closed. He imagines his dad watching TV on the couch, his new girlfriend and children gathered at his side, and wonders how he could be replaced. Doesn’t his dad miss him? Doesn’t he want to visit for his birthday?

  Outside, Uncle Rob’s truck starts up and pulls out of the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The boy should have scratched the truck when he had the chance. He should have kicked it hard with his shoes.

  There’s a knock at his door, and then his mom is stepping inside without waiting for him to answer. “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Nothing. Just looking out the window.” He slips the pocketknife beneath the covers.

  She sits down on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re upset about your dad not coming for your birthday.”

  He says nothing. The night air is warm, and he wishes he were out there, free beneath the stars. With or without a tent, it doesn’t matter.

  “And I know you probably think it’s my fault,” she continues. “Me and Uncle Rob both.”

  He remains silent. It is their fault, but he knows better than to say that.

  “I just want you to know that things are complicated.” She carefully stretches the bedspread with her hand, not making eye contact. “There’s more to the situation than you understand. Things weren’t always good between me and your dad.”

  He wants to tell her that it wasn’t just about her, that he was part of the family, too, but he only nods, and she takes this as a sign of forgiveness. “You’ll understand when you’re older.” She bends to kiss his forehead and tousle his hair, which used to be nice but now only makes him burn inside, the bark and buttons churning in a fury. “For now, let’s just concentrate on you having a nice birthday.”

  She turns out the light as she leaves, leaving him alone to think about how little his birthday matters. His presence doesn’t seem to matter. Even if he was poisoned from the bark and went to the hospital and died, everyone would mourn for a while and move on and he would be forgotten. The world and the order of events that presented themselves were not as they seemed and not what he expected them to be. Things were either safe or they were forbidden. Families raised children and children grew up and started families of their own. Uncles didn’t interfere. Fathers didn’t leave.

  If everyone else has the right to break the rules, he thinks, then he doesn’t have to follow them either. He sinks far below his sheets, listening to the night, listening to the creaking of floorboards as his mom moves from the living room to the bathroom to the bedroom, listening for that shift of air that signals she’s asleep. He turns the pocketknife over in his hand as he waits, planning out the way he will quickly move to the closet for his jacket and stop at the front door for his shoes before flicking the lock, turning the knob quietly, and running off into the night.

  The boy is circling in the woods, moving in directions he doesn’t understand. First meandering to the left. Then meandering to the right. His backyard—that safe world of cut grass and swing sets and a single willow tree he loves to climb—isn’t that far away, a few hundred yards at most, but the night is a tumble of darkness and twigs and stars too distant to guide his way, and besides, home is the one direction he doesn’t want to go. He stumbles over raised roots and pushes his way through shrubs and brambles and bushes. His bare arms and legs are scratched and his stomach aches with the effort of moving, but he is pure forward momentum. The forest is forbidden, and he is in it. The buttons and bark give him strength and dimension, and he moves as fast as he can until the eastern sky begins to glow golden, and he falls beneath a tree and drifts off to sleep.

  He wakes up and it takes a moment to remember where he is. Nothing is familiar: not the brush where he is hidden, not the trees spreading their dark canopy above, not the weak, queasy feeling in his stomach. Fear overtakes him in dark, cold sweats, and he pulls the Swiss Army knife from his pocket and flicks it open and closed, watching the way the morning sunlight hits the blade. Then he stands. There is nothing to do but walk.

  He could walk back to the house, and that is what he does at first, attempting to retrace his steps, but as he walks he remembers his mom and Uncle Rob and his dad living in another state with another family, and he stops. If he can stay hidden long enough, he reasons, they will have to contact his dad and his dad will have to come and find him. He’ll be angry and accuse his mom of not being a good mother, and then the boy will get to go live with him.

  He sees it all clearly in his head, and without giving it any further thought, he turns around and pushes his way deeper into the woods. The Allegheny Forest is huge, he knows. A person can get lost there for days, especially if he wants to get lost.

  The sun is high in the sky, almost noon. The boy knows this just as he knows some other facts his dad taught him about the great outdoors. He recites them one by one, taking comfort in his knowledge:

  1. All caterpillars are safe to touch, except for the white spiked ones. Brown woolly caterpillars can predict the future.

  2. Caterpillars become butterflies and lose their future-predicting properties.

  3. Trees grow from seeds.

  4. Birds carry seeds for many miles, which is how family trees become so spread.

  5. He carries seeds for many miles when they attach themselves to his clothes, to his hair.

  6. Moss only grows on the north side of the tree.

  7. If you talk to trees, then trees will think back to you in a silent way that can be interpreted only as telepathy.

  He takes pride in knowing these facts and recites them to himself again and again, sometimes adding in the longer explanations his dad once gave him. He pretends he is speaking to a great crowd of people interested in his wilderness skills. He has lived in the forest for many years, wears a coonskin hat, and has a lot to share. When he is done speaking, they applaud and his mom’s eyes fill with tears. Uncle Rob is not allowed to attend.

  These thoughts keep his mind from his stomach, which has transitioned from queasy to growling. If he had been thinking, he would have taken some food the night before, bread or crackers or something, but it’s not a big deal. This is only one more test of his skills. He has his knife and so eventually he can make a bow and arrow or a fishing rod. He’ll need some string, of course, but you never know what you’ll find out in the woods, what campers will leave behind, although he hasn’t seen signs of other people quite yet.

  In the meantime, he stops by a tree with a great white trunk and bark that is already peeling off. He takes a strip and puts it in his mouth. It is ugly and bitter, much worse than the bark of the day before, but he forces himself to chew it down to a gum and swallow. Then he does it again and again. His stomach fights with every downed bite, but he tells himself that this is what being a wilderness man is all about, rising to challenges and ove
rcoming them.

  His dad could be a wilderness man. He rescues people and pets from burning buildings, rushing into the flames and carrying them out doors and windows and sometimes places where walls used to be. He would come home smelling of smoke and soot and still have the energy for a hug.

  He imagines his dad would be very proud of him right now.

  He circles and traipses and tries to be as quiet as possible until he finds something that seems helpful to him: a small, trickling creek. A creek, his dad told him on one of their walks, is important. If you follow water, you won’t get lost.

  And if you have water, then you won’t get thirsty. He bends to the ground and tries to slurp up as much as he can, but the water only makes his stomach gurgle more and he backs away. Instead, he opts for a smooth, round pebble that he places on his tongue and sucks on, imagining that he’s draining as much water as possible from it. Pebble tucked in his mouth, he begins to follow the creek, taking step after limping step, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the house.

  They will eventually find him; this he knows. His dad told him that the search and rescue dogs never fail. Once scented, they always find their prey. The boy imagines police and firefighters and dogs spreading through the woods like a great balloon that will overtake him. He’ll be fishing at the creek and there they’ll be, expecting to find him on the verge of death, but he’ll calmly welcome them, invite them into the cottage he’s constructed of sticks and brush and leaves. His dad will be on the search and rescue team and the boy will be overjoyed to see him, but he’ll be careful not to get too emotional in front of all those people.

  His stomach aches again, a swelling on the inside that is indistinguishable from the pain on the outside. He places his hand against his stitches, and it comes away damp and sticky. He needs some sort of medicine, but that’s one part of his plan he hasn’t thought through. Perhaps he could wash his stitches at the creek, but that sounds painful and he simply continues on.