In The Forest Of Harm

by Sallie Bissell

  Across the store a dark-haired man was reading a newspaper behind the cluttered counter. He looked up. Mary caught her breath. Not twenty feet away sat Jonathan Walkingstick, her oldest friend and first lover. His dark eyes flashed once as he recognized her; then his face swiftly settled back into the noncommittal gaze that demonstrated courtesy for a Cherokee male.

  “Jonathan.” Her usually confident voice peeped out of her throat like a frightened sparrow.

  “Mary.” He said her name just as he used to—as if it were some charm that held a special magic just for him. Even now she could feel the caress of his voice all the way across the room.

  A blush swept up her neck. “I had no idea you’d be here. I heard you were in the Army. England or somewhere.”

  “I was.” Jonathan smiled and shrugged. “But I didn’t make a career out of it.”

  “So when did you come back here? Has Norma Owle retired?”

  “I’ve been back here since ninety-four. Norma died that fall.”

  “Oh.” For a moment Mary didn’t know what to say. Her mother was dead, but it seemed to her that everybody else up here should just go on living as they had been, timeless as the reruns of a TV sitcom.

  “Well, it’s good to see you again. Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.” She babbled inanely, as if after twelve years she’d driven all the way up here just so she could introduce him to Alex and Joan. “We’re going camping this weekend.”

  She walked toward him. He wore his hair longer than she remembered—tied in a ponytail with a leather thong. The slender muscularity of his youth had thickened into the powerful shoulders of a man in his prime. A postal-service badge hung crooked on his old Army jacket, which covered a faded denim work shirt. A half-finished New York Times crossword puzzle lay next to his cup of coffee, and the bone handle of the knife he called Ribtickler still protruded from his belt, just beneath his left arm. No paunch sagged around his waist and his mouth still tilted upwards in a wide, sensuous curve. Mary glanced quickly at his left hand. His fingers were bare. And he still looked at her as if he’d found some secret part of her only he could see.

  She touched Alex’s arm, willing her voice to courtroom strength. “Alex and Joan, I’d like to introduce an old friend of mine, Jonathan Walkingstick.”

  “Hi.” Joan smiled at him, her dark eyes bright with curiosity. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hello.” Alex spoke softly as she extended her hand. She knows exactly who he is, Mary thought. She remembers every word I ever said about him.

  “Good to meet you.” Jonathan smiled his old lopsided smile; the blood seemed to sizzle through Mary’s brain. “Where are you ladies headed today?”

  “Someplace called Atagahi,” Alex replied.

  “That’s a pretty good walk.” He shot a curious glance at Joan’s shiny new boots and stiff jacket. “You guys camp a lot?”

  Mary shook her head. “We’re taking it easy. I’m going to do some sketching, they’re just going to relax. We should be home late Sunday.”

  “Going through the Ghosts?”

  Mary smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Ghosts?” Joan looked at Mary. “What does he mean, ghosts?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Mary. “Just a weird spot in the trail.”

  Jonathan asked, “Got tents and bags?”

  Mary nodded again. “Alex’s boyfriend loaned us some real high-tech stuff.”

  “Well, watch out for the weather. We’ve already had one snow, and it’s only October.”

  For a moment, an awkward silence sprouted between them, then Joan spoke. “You got any Virginia Slims up here?”

  “In the back left corner by the magazines.” Jonathan pointed to the rear of the store.

  “Any PayDay candy bars?” Alex was poking around the potato chip display.

  “Middle aisle, over the outboard motor oil.”

  Alex and Joan went where he directed, leaving the two of them in silence.

  Mary cleared her throat. “I thought I saw Billy Swimmer over at the Den. Has he started posing for the tourists?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Ever since he lost his public job. Billy’s doing everything he can, trying to raise enough money to get his fiddle out of hock. He’s got a gig waiting with some bluegrass band.”

  Mary laughed. “Did he and Tammy Taylor ever get married?”

  “Yeah. About three months after their son Michael was born.”

  “And you’re the postman and bowyer?” Mary looked toward the back of the store where a number of bows hung unstrung against the wall. Longbows, recurves, double recurves—each one glowed in the shadowy light, elegant tributes to the skill in his powerful fingers. Mary could remember a time when those same fingers had smoothed the recurves of her own skin as expertly as they now shaped hickory and maple.

  “Yeah. The bowyer, the fletcher, the candlestick maker. Three days a week I’m the postman, too.” He looked into her face for a moment as if he wanted to say something else, then he laughed and retreated into polite-ness. “How about you? Happily married, I bet. With two kids and a Volvo.”

  Mary felt her blush deepen. “No, actually not. My work keeps me pretty busy. I’m an assistant DA in Atlanta.”

  “Lena Owle read you were famous down there. Said they called you Killer Crow or something.”

  Mary laughed. “Lena shouldn’t believe everything she reads in the papers. So how about you? Two kids and a Volvo?”

  He shook his head. “I was married for a while in Britain, but it didn’t work out.”

  A Polaroid photograph taped to the cash register caught her eye. In it, Jonathan stood with his arm around a small, beautiful woman with luminous skin.

  Mary pointed at the photo. “Isn’t that . . .”

  “Jodie Foster,” he said proudly. “They filmed Nell up here. I was in the courtroom scene at the end.”

  “Hey, congratulations.” Though she liked Jodie Foster, Mary had avoided that movie. Stereo and Technicolor brought the mountains too close for comfort.

  “Just my five minutes of fame.”

  He laughed, then Joan’s New York accent rang through the store. “Mary—come check this out.”

  Mary turned. Joan stood in front of a large cork bulletin board cluttered with the various chits of paper that marked peoples’ passage up here—photos of hunters with trophy bears, notes advertising Plott hounds for sale, handwritten messages from one hiker to another. Mary walked over beside her.

  Joan was looking at some photographs. They resembled Wanted posters, except the photos were not the mug shots of criminals, but people who had disappeared into the forest and never returned. They were pictures desperate relatives had ripped from family albums—one girl’s high school graduation photo, another a gap-toothed little boy in an old Milwaukee Braves baseball cap grinning over a string of fish. Mary had seen the yellowed images so many times she felt like the missing people were old friends. Alice Andrews, nineteen, disappeared October 1, 1976, when she wandered away from a camp-out with friends. A year later Jimmy Reynolds, eight years old, let go of his father’s hand on Butler’s Bald for just a minute and was never seen again. Most people who got lost up here were found. Those two, though, had vanished. When she’d lived here they had haunted her, seeming to call to her through the trees every time she walked home alone.

  Joan took off her sunglasses. “This is serious forest, isn’t it?”

  Mary shrugged. “Occasionally people don’t make it out. Mostly, though, they do.” She smiled at Joan. “We certainly will.”

  They walked back to the front of the store, where Alex had dumped six candy bars on the counter.

  “You must not be into counting fat grams.” Jonathan punched the keys on the ancient wooden cash register.

  “Not today.” Alex handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Me and my fat grams took separate vacations.”

  “Hey, life is short.” He grinned, flicking open a brown paper bag. “And there’s but a finite number of PayDays.”<
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  Joan reappeared with three packs of Virginia Slims and a bag of red licorice whips. She held up the latter. “I heard these were good to eat on the trail.”

  “Only if you like them in real life,” said Mary.

  “Oh.” Joan fingered the candy, then put it back on the shelf. “Well, just give me the smokes then.”

  “You might try these instead.” Jonathan grabbed a handful of Power Bars and shoved them in the sack with the cigarettes. “On the house.”

  He rang up the sale. “I understand you ladies are going primitive,” he said as he gave Joan her change. “If you’d like one last shot at a flush toilet, you’re welcome to use my facilities.”

  “Wow, that would be great,” said Joan.

  “Right over there.” He pointed to a doorway beside an old ice-cream cooler that now chilled grubs and night crawlers.

  Alex and Joan headed for the bathroom.

  “Would you like to walk out on the porch?” Jonathan asked Mary when the door had closed behind them.

  She looked at the sun, streaming in the windows. It would be like old times—Jonathan, close to her in the warm October light. She smiled, but shook her head. “Thanks, but I’d like to look around in here a minute.”

  “Sure.” His smile faded, and she knew that he, too, was thinking of that long-ago afternoon. “I understand.”

  A sandy-haired man dressed in jeans entered the store, asking Jonathan about good spots to find trout. While they talked, Mary looked around. Little Jump Off was the same place it had been twelve years ago—still welcoming the mountain traveler with a little of everything and not much of anything. Although Jonathan now had a TV and a computer behind the counter, she knew if she stepped outside the back door, she would find an old well and a hog-killing trough and, further on, a cool, dark, hickory-scented shack where last fall’s bear hams hung curing for Christmas. Further beyond that was the spot where she had said good-bye to him that awful afternoon. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes. Some things never change, however much you wish them to.

  Slowly she walked over to the far corner where her mother’s loom had once stood. It was here Martha wove the rugs and tapestries that tourists bought as souvenirs. Although the wide pine planks had been trod upon by a thousand different feet, the funny little discoloration in the wood was still there. Barely discernible to someone not looking for it, if you tilted your head at just the right angle you could see it. Mary knelt and covered it with her hand. It was here, at this point in the universe, that Martha Crow’s heart had stopped and Mary Crow’s heart had been broken forever.

  She stared at the spot until she heard Joan and Alex coming out of the bathroom. Then she stood up quickly and turned away.

  She used the bathroom herself, enjoying, one final time, the amenities of toilet paper and running water. Then she joined Joan and Alex, who were admiring Jonathan’s snapshot of Jodie Foster.

  “Ready, scouts?” she asked them.

  “I am.” Alex grabbed her bag of candy bars.

  “I’ve got my smokes,” added Joan.

  “You ladies have a safe hike.” Jonathan grinned, and raised one hand to Mary. “See you later,” he called softly. “Be careful.”

  “Bye.” She followed her friends to the door. Pausing, she turned back toward the counter. “Say, Jonathan, who’s the sheriff up here these days?”

  “Stump Logan,” he answered. “Same old fart as when your mother . . .” He stopped abruptly, horrified at the words he’d almost said. “He’s fishing on Grapevine Creek,” he amended quickly.

  “Thanks,” she replied. “Maybe I’ll get in touch with him sometime.” She smiled at him. “It was nice seeing you.”

  “Come back soon,” he invited, his voice buoyant with hope. “No need to be a stranger.”

  She waved, then hurried to the car, almost bumping into the sandy-haired fisherman, who was ambling back to his car with a new fly for his rod.

  “Yo, Mary, who was that hunk behind the counter?” Joan demanded from the backseat as Alex started the engine. “I’m sensing a little historia here, know what I mean?”

  Mary stared at the store until Alex pulled out of the parking lot. “You sensed right, counselor,” she finally replied. “Historia is the one thing Little Jump Off is lousy with.”

  SIX

  I’ll be damned!” Jonathan Walkingstick hurried to the door and watched as the red Beemer skidded in the gravel and pulled back onto the highway. The car hesitated once, then sped around the curve, the blonde girl’s hair blowing like flax in the wind.

  Suddenly he felt as if he’d been kicked hard, and in the stomach. After twelve years, Mary Crow had just waltzed back into his life, and had looked damn good. Stylish in the way of city women, but different, too. Strong. Confident. Jonathan sighed and rubbed at an invisible spot on the windowpane. Mary must be doing okay.

  He’d sneaked off to see her once in Atlanta, although he’d never told a soul. He’d accompanied his girlfriend, Lena Owle, to a teachers’ convention, and while Lena attended her meetings he’d ridden the subway out to the Deckard County courthouse. He spotted Mary the instant he walked in the door. Black suit, spike heels, skirt just touching the interesting part of a woman’s thigh. Her breasts pushed against the deep V of her suit lapels, and he’d felt himself growing hard just looking at her. She’d hurried into a courtroom, and he’d snuck in behind her and hastily taken a seat in the back row. For the rest of the day, or at least until he had to meet Lena, he’d watched Mary work the jury as cannily as a collie herding sheep. He had to leave before the case was decided, but he knew the accused was well on his way upriver. Afterwards he’d felt bad about the whole thing. He’d taken Lena out to an expensive Thai restaurant to make up for it. Later, when they’d made love, he took extra care to make her feel good, but he’d had to keep his eyes open. Every time they closed, all he could see was Mary.

  “I saved you a seat,” he said aloud now to the empty store, using their old line from high school. Back then he’d believed that he and Mary would go on forever, saving each other seats until the hearse arrived to take one or both of them to the grave.

  “Too bad you took a different bus,” he muttered as he walked back to the counter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to hold the scent of her in his memory as long as he could. When he opened his eyes he scowled at the folded-up newspaper and tried to refocus on his puzzle. He needed a seven-letter word for “member of a nudist sect.” He had just begun to write in “adahist” when the cowbell rang again.

  “Hey, Jonathan!” Billy Swimmer, the skinny man who’d been shilling for photographs at the Demon’s Den, stood in the doorway, his Sioux headdress tucked under his arm. “How goes it at Little Jerk Off?”

  “Fine, Billy,” Jonathan replied, scarcely looking up from his puzzle. He figured Billy must have spotted Mary and her friends as they drove past the Den. Like most inhabitants of small towns, Billy Swimmer could smell gossip in the air much like a mule could sense a coming storm. Now he was up here to sniff out whatever juicy tidbits Mary might have left behind. Jonathan concentrated on his crossword as Billy strolled over and hopped up on the counter.

  “You haven’t heard of anybody needin’ help doing anything, have you? Nobody wants to have their picture taken and I still need a couple of hundred bucks to get my fiddle out of hock.”

  Jonathan looked up reluctantly from the paper. “Zell Crisp was in here saying you owe him a couple of hundred bucks, too.”

  “Well, yeah,” admitted Billy with a helpless, snaggletoothed smile.

  Jonathan shook his head. “Sorry. If I hear of anything I’ll let you know.”

  “Say, wasn’t that Mary Crow I saw drivin’ up here in that red BMW?” Billy now revealed his true subject of interest, plucking a speck of dirt off one of the white pin-feathers at the base of the headdress.

  “Yep.”

  “Is she coming back?” he asked just above a whisper, forgetting his feathers and staring at Jonath
an with intense dark eyes.

  Jonathan shook his head and peered at 14-Down. A six-letter word for “offspring of two gametes.” “Nope. She’s just going camping with some friends. They’re going to Atagahi.”

  “Oh.” Billy stopped short, disappointed. His brows pulled together in a frown. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what she said. They loaded up on cigarettes and candy bars and took a whiz in the john. That sounds like women going camping to me.”

  “Well, hell, Jonathan. I don’t see why she’d come up here just for that.”

  “This is her home, Billy. Why shouldn’t she come here?”

  “To go camping? They got plenty of campsites down in Georgia.”

  Jonathan looked up from his puzzle. “Leave it alone, Billy,” he warned, his voice soft.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just a shame, everything that happened with you and her . . .” Billy’s words trailed off awkwardly.

  “Yeah.” Jonathan began to print z-y-g-o-t-e upwards from adahist. “It is.” He repressed a sigh. Everything Billy said was true, but what could he do about it? Mary was a hotshot DA in Atlanta. He ran the Little Jump Off General Store.

  The cowbell jingled again. Jonathan glanced up, hoping that Mary had forgotten something, but a man he’d never seen before filled the doorway. The stranger wore hunting boots and carried both a shotgun and a battered canvas bag over his shoulder. His shirt and pants were standard Army camouflage, but with the name tag faded and the unit IDs torn off the sleeves. The sour odor of rancid fat and unwashed flesh wafted into the store. Billy gave a loud sniff and stashed his headdress safely behind the counter.

  “Howdy, friend.” The word brain-fried flashed across Jonathan’s mind. “Can I help you?”