I ignore the wind and the constant rain. I try to move quietly as I go, try to keep my eyes open for possible food. I am not hungry just yet, and I’m hoping to find food before I get hungry. What food, I’m not sure. I doubt I can run down a rabbit with these packs on, and if I discard them to chase a rabbit, will I find my way back to them? About the best I can hope for is early greens.
I have not gone too far before my breasts swell with milk. The discomfort builds as I walk, my breasts growing heavier and tighter, until finally I start leaking milk in sticky blotches that spread on the front of my shirt. I wonder if Avery is hungry, if he misses me. I wonder where they are, and if they are looking for me, waiting impatiently.
It is midday when my ears separate the roar of a river from the soughing of the wind through the tree-tops. In a sort of dull despair, I realize that I must turn sharply to go toward the sound. The rain had masked its smell from me, the wind in the trees concealed the sound of its waters. How long have I been paralleling it? There is no way of knowing.
I set my teeth and work toward the river. The brush seems to grow denser and more prickly as I get closer to it, and finally I resort to a simple bulldozing technique, forcing my way through the bushes to the bank. When I get there, I realize another of my assumptions is wrong. I have pictured myself hiking up a sandy, gravelly riverbank to where I will find Pan and Avery camped on a cute little beach. But it is breakup, thaw time, and the river is jealously rolling down the full width of its bed, eating under the bank I am standing on. There will be no easy hike downstream, but a day spent pushing my way through brush and scrambling down and then up out of the ravines that house the multitude of creeks that feed this river. Nor does the wind and rain ease up.
The day seems to last forever. I try to tell myself that I am making good mileage. Somehow, when I don’t know how far I must go, I doubt the value of this. I find a few greens, the still coiled heads of fiddlehead ferns that have a flavor like early asparagus and such, but it is scarcely enough to fill my stomach. Oddly, I do not feel hungry. I am too busy being wet and cold. And worried. Surely I should have seen them by now. Of course they would have waited for me. I refuse to imagine Pan’s sure hooves somehow stumbling down that bank, dragging Avery into that hungry river with him. Stupid tricks like that are reserved for me. They are safe, fine, and I am sure they are waiting for me. I try to hurry.
Night comes before I am ready for it. Pan’s easy knack of finding a dry tree to camp under has eluded me. When I stop, it is just because it is too dark to go farther, not because of any liking for the spot. There are a few large trees that provide some shelter from the rain. I make myself a nest of blankets and furs at the base of a tree, and strip off my wet clothes before I huddle into it. I don’t deceive myself that they will dry by morning, but at least I will sleep warmer this way. Again, I reassure myself that they are probably waiting for me, may even come looking for me. And I doze off quickly, fleeing reality.
In my dream, I stand before the Wild Things and say, “I have come to be Queen of all Wild Things.” And the big one with the clawed toes looks down on me with its yellow eyes and says, “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re not a wild thing. You’re a big fake.”
It is light when I wake up, but I don’t move. I stay in my huddle of blankets. I draw my knees up to my chest and lean my arms on them and stare out through the grey-misted forest. I really see it now. The wildness. Thousands of acres of it. Uncut by roads, untamed, unwalked by men. And I wonder when I started doing it. Was it when I was ten or twelve, ranging over probably no more than eighty acres and pretending to myself it was the great wild world? Eighty acres crosshatched with survey cuts and bordered by roads. Overgrown dirt roads, true, but roads on at least three sides. I suddenly see the immensity of those woods from an adult’s perspective. A playpen. A large playpen, with moose and a few lynx, a porcupine and some rabbits thrown in. But a playpen compared to this wilderness I am in now. And had I believed myself a wild thing? Sure. A wild thing with a pocket full of matches, or a rifle, a pocket-knife, and half a dozen candy bars. A wild thing that went home to sleep in a bed at night, to feed from a full refrigerator. My self-sufficiency, my woodsiness, has all been an elaborate charade. For my family, for Tom, for Tom’s family. But most of all, for myself.
I haven’t fooled Pan for one minute.
He has fed me and sheltered me, I have been his little forest princess. I chew my lower lip as I think on these things. What had I told him back at the cave? I can do it, I can take it? Do what, take what? Continue to do what he told me, continue to take the food he provided, and to pretend to myself that I was tough and self-sufficient. Because I can sleep outside all night, and eat food cooked over a fire.
I pull the blankets up higher around my shoulders, huddle deeper. How hard is it for him to keep things to a pace I can manage, avoid obstacles that are too difficult for me, hunt enough to feed him and the child and me?
What was he really asking me, back there at the cave?
I have too many emotions, I cannot sort them all out. Bewilderment, at how stupid I have been. Shame. Hurt. Angry that he never came out and told me. Relief that he didn’t. Abashed, that I never realized all he was doing for me. And shame again. Because it seems my first thoughts were never truly for him, never truly for the child.
I don’t cry. Crying seems childish to me now, and I have been childish long enough. Time to try to be what I’ve been pretending to be. Self-sufficient. Because I suspect the truth is that I am lost. That perhaps I have intersected with the river below the point where Pan is waiting for me, perhaps every step I take downstream takes me away from him. I realize I have no way of knowing. Nor does he. When he decides to go looking for me, he will look upstream. But I am downstream. Maybe. Or maybe not.
If you are lost in the woods, the common sense goes, stay where you are. So the searchers can find you. All I have to do is crouch here on this riverbank, and sooner or later Pan will come to find me. He’ll bring me food, he’ll hug me, he’ll protect and guide me.
Regardless of the cost to himself.
And the cost to Avery?
I repack the gear, being ruthless. What do I really need? Discard anything extra, get it down to one pack. It isn’t as hard as I would have thought it yesterday. I bundle the rest and leave it under the tree for squirrels to make nests of. And I set off. My plan is simple, and realistic. Follow the river downstream. Not because I am looking for Pan. But because rivers attract fishermen and boaters and home builders. And those things mean roads. Roads means cars, and I can hitchhike. I fabricate a hard-luck story about my boyfriend dumping me out of the car after we quarreled. Get to a town. Wing it from there.
Go back to where I’m not a burden to those who love me.
When I come to a clear stream, in midafternoon, I pause, not just to drink, but also to pull myself together. Wash my face, hands, and arms. Comb my hair out into a semblance of order. Straighten my clothes as best I can. When I come to a road, I’ll put on my cleanest shirt. Drink more, lots, to try to convince my stomach it’s full. The cold water numbs the hunger pangs. My breasts are leaking again. There is much less pressure. Another day of not nursing, and my milk will probably dry up entirely. Last link with Avery dried up and gone.
I cross the stream, continue downriver. The rain lessens, and hiking is relatively easy through this stretch. I push myself, resolving to cover as much ground as I can today. Tomorrow I’m going to be very hungry. Already I’m noticing that it’s harder for my body to keep itself warm.
The third time I trip over a snag I didn’t see, I deduce it’s time to stop for the night. I make my nest again, and debate starting a fire. But an inventory has shown I have only three feeble paper matches left. Best save them in case I get a really cold night.
It is harder to fall asleep tonight, perhaps because I am hungry, perhaps because I have so much to kick myself for. Oh, love, I silently mourn. Why didn’t you just tell me? I feel ashamed, not to ha
ve known. The fourth time I get up to shift around and try to find a more comfortable way to lie, I see the light through the trees. It’s quite a ways away, but it’s white light, not yellow. Not a campfire, but someone’s window, shining through the dark.
I stand, staring at it. I hadn’t considered this scenario. Okay, I’m a stupid statesider who went hiking with her boyfriend, quarreled, ran away from him, and got lost. Where are we hiking to? I don’t know, he was in charge of that. Where did we start out from? Oh, the road by the bridge. There’s bound to be a road with a bridge somewhere around here. Okay, go now, before you lose your courage, before you stop to think how full of holes your story is. Even if they don’t believe me, they’ll have to let me in, they’ll have to point me toward the road tomorrow. How bad can they be? Rapists and murderers? I lie to myself, tell myself I’ll be able to tell if they’re good people by how their cabin looks. And I pack up my blankets and head for the light.
After an hour of bumping into trees and scrabbling in and out of two ravines, I come to the cabin. It looks promising. The light is obviously the blue-white glare of a Coleman lantern. I stand and look across a rabbit-fenced garden. Not planted yet nor even tilled, it’s still too early for that. But I smell a compost heap. Back to the earthers. Anyone who believes in compost can’t be all bad. Even as I debate circling to find a front door, a dog starts barking. Chained dog, some kind of baying hound. The cabin people lose points in my estimate for chaining their dog, and for owning something with floppy ears. I wait silently, trusting that someone will turn out to see what’s spooking the dog. Let’s see how they sound before I step clear of the trees.
A door opens and shuts. I am unprepared for what happens next. A voice from the trees behind me hisses, “Evelyn!” while a halogen spotlight hits me. I am blinded, stunned by the light, and I freeze. Stupidly I wonder if they can see me clearly, if perhaps I can stand so still that they will be uncertain of what they see. The weeds are high by the fence, my clothing is muted in color. “Who’s there?” a woman’s voice demands.
“Evelyn!” someone gasps behind me, and a hard hand grips my wrist. He pulls at me, and I start to move, to tell them I don’t know what. “Who’s there!” the voice demands again, and this time it shakes. Something in the tone, I don’t know what, I know the danger, I pant out, “Run!” And the shotgun explodes the world.
I can’t separate the noise from the white light, and the hot buzz that rips past my ear. All sound is gone for an instant, and then there is screaming and yelling from the cabin and the dog is baying and jerking on its chain. I turn, and in a horrifying instant I see that Pan is holding Avery. “Run!” I shriek, and I am the one dragging at his hand, charging back into the shadows and safety of the forest with Pan in tow. He stumbles and I smell the hot sick smell of blood. My heart jumps sideways and almost stops, but something else takes over me, and I keep my grip on his hand, even manage to guide him around most of the larger obstacles. The shouting and the baying of the dog fade behind us.
On and still on. Dry throat, hammering heart, but go on. Splash into a stream, and it’s easier to run upstream than to clamber out the other side. On, and there is an unevenness to his gait, I pray it’s only Avery’s weight. When I realize I am no longer running, but only jerking along at little more than a walk, I come to a halt. I am shaking violently. Pan has not made a sound, not in all this time. I scrabble up the bank of the stream, right into some kind of thickety bushes. Cover is how I see it, and I push my way into it. We sink down and huddle together, clutching at one another. Avery hiccups suddenly and comes clambering and clinging into my arms. I hold him tight, as tightly as he clutches me. After what seems like a very long time, I stop shaking. Pan is leaning heavily against me.
“Are you all right?” I whisper to the darkness.
“I’m okay,” he hedges, and I hear the pain in his voice. I am too great a coward to touch him, to try to feel for damage. Instead I scrabble in the darkness, drag out and untangle a blanket and wrap us all in it. Avery has recovered enough to dig at my shirt. I open it, and he nurses what milk is there, but I sense it is more for comfort than hunger. He can’t be hurt, I tell myself. He wouldn’t be interested in nursing if he were hurt. Except that Teddy always wanted to nurse if he were uncomfortable or sick. I bend to kiss the top of his curly head. I manage to free an arm and draw Pan closer beside me. “It’s going to be all right,” I promise him.
He shifts in my arms. “You were going back to them,” he says bewilderedly.
“Hush,” I tell him, and rock them both until sleep claims us all.
TWENTY-SIX
* * *
My cabin looks different from the ridge. Foreign and abandoned, a newsreel scene from a faraway land. Looks like the snow-load took out one corner of the porch roof. The garden is completely overgrown with dead weeds from last summer. The pickup sits unevenly on one flat front tire.
“Are you sure?” he asks me again. I wish he wouldn’t.
I picked seven pieces of shot from his shoulder and the side of his neck that morning. But the one that we dug out of Avery’s soft little arm hurt us both the most. I watched Pan lick and suck at the little red hole until he was sure there was nothing else in there. Then I nursed Avery again until he fell asleep, and we coddled him into a nest of blankets and both sighed and looked at each other. Sadly. Wearily.
After a while I took the one remaining blanket and spread it for us and drew the satyr down beside me. Halfway into our lovemaking, I reached and stilled his hands on my body. “You’re doing this for me, aren’t you?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer for a long time. Then. “I don’t mind,” he told me.
“But you don’t understand,” I pressed him.
He pulled a fraction of an inch away from me. “There is no child to be made,” he admitted. “Nothing can come of this. Except the pleasure. The same sort of pleasure that comes from eating good food even when one is not hungry. Humans do that, too.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “We do.” He moved a hand, but I put mine over it, stilling it again. Thinking. I asked, “Will you ever reach for me again? To want to touch me, this way, without my touching you first?”
He didn’t exactly answer the question. “I understand the hunger to have a child,” he finally told me. “That passion I know.”
“This is the hunger of the heart,” I told him. “Such as humans always suffer from. And I ask you, one last time, to soothe it for me.”
And he did. I rested under him, feeling him touch me not for his own lust, but for the love he had for me. Letting him make love to me, solely for me, accepting what he willingly offered. And I didn’t feel guilty or inferior or patronized. I felt loved. And then I had told him, “Now you can take me home.”
Days ago, miles ago. And now we are here, and his simple question makes it hard all over again. “I’m sure,” I finally say. I turn and stoop and Avery comes into my arms. For the last two days, he has refused to be carried. He is too big for that now. I look into his huge brown eyes, kiss and smell the curly hair. I kiss the palms of each of his hands, and his belly button, and bury my face in the softness of his neck for one last minute. Then I stand. I dare not hug Pan, nor kiss him. I only look at him and say, “Take care of him. Teach him all he needs to know.”
“I will,” he promises.
I stand a moment longer, looking at him. He doesn’t need me anymore. Neither does Avery. But they love me. Love without need. It can be done. I am trying to do it now. But some perverse devil in me says to the satyr, “Come back to me. If you ever feel the hunger of the heart. I’ll be here. You know the way.”
Then I turn and walk down the hill. I try not to look back. But when I get to my doorstep, I cannot stand it any longer. I look back up the ridge. They’re gone. I knew they’d be gone. I knew it, I tell my shaking heart. I told them to go.
The door is locked. Someone has been here, somebody tidying up loose ends. I walk slowly through the house. Tom’s things ar
e gone, and so are most of Teddy’s. Just as well.
Big Brown envelope on the table. Divorce papers. Certified check for five hundred. I wonder whose idea that was. Deed to the land and Tom’s quit claim clipped to it. Keys to the house and truck. Quit claim to the truck. And one battered copy of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are.
I set down the papers and the book and look around the cabin. “He loved me, at least a little,” I tell the walls. “For a while.” Then I look around, at the shrew droppings on the counters and the dust on the table. “Time to clean house,” I say aloud. And I do. I haul water and I make the fire and I clean the cupboards. I can do all this myself, for myself. I think of the tops I will carve, of the jumping jacks I will give merry faces to, and of taking them to Annie’s shop. I’ll be okay. I eat canned Dinty Moore stew, and try to believe in tomorrow.
I make up the bed with homespun blankets that still smell of satyr. That night, when I go to sleep, I am exhausted. But I dream of an old woman, a toy maker who wakes up in the night and goes to the window and looks out over her garden. Peas and pansies, carrots and roses. She leans her forehead against the cold window glass and looks out. Because she hears piping in the moonlight. And she isn’t afraid to run out in her white nightgown with her greying hair loose on her shoulders. To where the wild things are.
Cloven Hooves Page 38
