The Honest Truth

by Dan Gemeinhart

  In all that terrible madness, I heard a whining in my ear. I felt a tug on my collar. I saw out of the corner of my eye a brownish blur in the blackness. Beau had hold of me. He was trying to pull me to shore. He wasn’t letting go.

  If I didn’t get to the island, we both would die.

  I speared my legs down into the water. They found the bottom, and I pushed toward the island with all that my legs had left. My arms swam and pulled, and my legs thrust back down again, and again hit rock and pushed. Beau whined, and I kicked once more, and for the first time I got my shoulders clear of the water for a second, before my legs were washed out from beneath me.

  I saw in a flash of lightning the end of the island. It came to a point and I was close to missing it. A fallen log jutted out into the water from its end, and with one more desperate kick I surged closer and stretched out through the fear and choking cold and blackness. My hands hit wet wood, and I grabbed. My body stopped in the water, but the water pushed and pulled and tried to drag me back down. My feet punched down and the bottom was closer now and I crawled and kicked toward the sand. I felt Beau paddling beside me, his teeth still holding on to my shirt.

  There was one last stumbling splash, and then we tumbled together over the log and onto the soft sand.

  My lungs heaved and shuddered from the struggle and from the frigid water. Beau stood beside me, panting and shaking the river from his fur.

  I shivered like I never had before. Violent, giant shivers that shook me like a car wreck.

  I tried to think. My backpack was still on my back, pressed against the sand. My duffel was gone, yanked away by the hungry water.

  My teeth clattered against each other, letting my breaths out in a shaky hiss. I was out of the water, but I was wet and freezing. I could still die. Cold, hard rain pelted my face.

  I wiggled out of my backpack and fumbled with the zipper. My hands shook and my fingers wouldn’t listen to what my brain told them. Beau whined beside me. The cold closed in around us and dug in with its icy fingers. I felt it poke painfully at my bones.

  I got the backpack open and dug through it looking for the other plastic ziplock bag. The one I’d been saving for the mountain. But I needed it now.

  I found the bag and pulled it out with shaking hands. Sealed and dry inside was a box of matches, some folded-up newspaper, and a couple of cotton balls. The cotton balls were coated with Vaseline — I’d read that they were the best fire starters that you could make.

  Dragging my backpack behind me, I stumbled up the island to the sandy part under the bridge, out of the rain and away from the eyes of drivers. I scraped a flat spot out on the sand next to a giant black boulder and gathered a pile of twigs and sticks and branches, the smallest I could find. There were plenty of washed-up logs and sticks on the island, and under the bridge the wood was bone-dry. It was almost totally dark, but the lightning flashes here and there gave me enough light to do what I needed.

  I leaned the littlest twigs together in a tiny teepee over some crumpled-up newspaper and shoved a couple of the cotton balls in. My fingers were barely working by then, but I got the matchbox open and dumped a few out and managed to pinch one between my thumb and a numb finger. I scraped it against the matchbox and it sputtered into flame. I concentrated on holding the match steady and firm. I lit the newspaper in several places, then touched the match to the cotton balls. They burned with a slow blue flame. The flames climbed up and around the newspaper, getting bigger and brighter. They curled around the twigs.

  “Come on,” I begged through chattering teeth. “Come on. Light.” Beau stood pressed against me. He was shivering. We both needed the fire.

  I blew gently on the fragile flames and saw one skinny twig start to burn, then another. I quickly leaned slightly bigger sticks on top of them and blew some more. The bigger sticks caught fire, and I smiled. I’d done it.

  I stacked bigger and bigger branches on the flames as they grew, until a basketball-sized fire snapped and glowed on my little island. It looked almost cheerful.

  But I was still shivering so bad I could hardly breathe, and I was wearing clothes soaked with ice water. I piled on a couple of logs as thick as my arm, and when they caught and crackled into flame I held my hands as close to the fire as I could stand until they started tingling with sharp, painful bolts of feeling. I flexed my fingers and stretched my palms until my hands mostly worked again, then started pulling off my wet clothes.

  I got my jacket off, then my sweatshirt, then my T-shirt. I shivered worse when the wind hit my bare skin, but I knew it was better than being in wet clothes, so I went to work on my shoelaces. I got one shoe off then added another log to the fire and got the other shoe off. Next came my socks, then my pants, and then I crouched beside the fire, so close it hurt.

  Bit by bit, my body warmed. I could feel the deathly river water drying in the fire’s heat. I was still covered in goose bumps, and gusts of wind still chilled me from time to time, but my shaking had calmed to just normal shivering, and my teeth stopped chattering uncontrollably.

  I wasn’t going to die. Not there, anyway. Not then.

  I closed my eyes and let that thought roll over me. I’d fought the river, and the cold, and the darkness — and I’d won.

  I looked down at myself, squatting in dripping underwear by a fire under a bridge. I started laughing and crying at the same time. It was mostly a happy feeling.

  Beau still stood beside me, drying his fur by the fire. The flames flickered in his one brown eye, and one green. He cocked his head at my strange laughter.

  “I was afraid of dying,” I said down to him. He whined and licked my bony knee. I scratched him behind his ears. I sniffed at my tears and laughed again. “Here I am, on this trip, and I was afraid of dying.”

  But my crazy smile faded when I saw Beau looking up at me. There was nothing but love in that dog. Nothing but trust. I swallowed and took a few shaky breaths.

  “You almost died, too,” I said to him. It felt horrible to say it out loud. To admit what I’d dragged Beau into just because I didn’t want to be alone and I knew he’d follow me anywhere. “I’m sorry, Beau. That was never part of my plan. It was never part of it. That’s the honest truth.”

  I kept scratching him behind his ears, long after my fingers got tired and my arm ached.

  As if that made up for it.

  It was a long night. I kept the fire going strong and stretched my wet clothes out on dead log branches around it. It took hours for them to dry and meanwhile I was almost naked, on an island, in the middle of a mountain storm. I was exhausted down into my very middle. I ate an apple from my backpack and shared a couple of granola bars with Beau. All my mind and body wanted to sleep, but I needed dry clothes to sleep in. I talked to Beau to keep myself awake.

  Once, during the darkest hour of the night, I wandered away from the fire to gather more firewood. I looked back at our soggy little camp. The firelight was bright and cozy, flashing and flickering on the sand and the boulder and the logs. Beau was curled up within the circle of light. He looked warm, and happy. All around our fire was darkness and wind and the mad, roaring river. I got a lump in my throat. It was awful and sad and miserable. But it was beautiful. The camera was around my neck and I took a picture of the fire in the storm, the light and the darkness and the brown patchy dog.

  When my clothes were finally dry, I threw my last three logs on the fire — big, fat ones — and then laid down next to Beau. The fire snapped and muttered. The wind whistled between the rocks. The river was a never-ending wet rumble. From time to time there was the sound of car tires on the bridge above us.

  I was asleep before I could even decide to close my eyes.

  In the morning I was stiff and sore and starving — but I was alive, and more determined than ever to finish what I’d started. I’d come too far and survived too much to give up. That’s the truth. I looked through my backpack to see what I had left. A couple more apples, some bananas, a few granola bars,
and most of a pouch of beef jerky. A bottle of water. And a baggie of dog treats.

  “Not much food,” I said to Beau, who was scratching sleepily at his ear with a hind leg. “But I don’t have much time, anyway. It’ll be enough.”

  Before shoving my notebook into the backpack I opened it up. It had gotten a little wet, but the backpack had kept it mostly safe. Some of the pages stuck together a little but it was savable. I sat on a log and looked around at our little island camp. Beau was lapping up some river water to wash down his beef jerky breakfast. I thought of the night before, of the fire and the darkness and the picture I’d taken, and I wrote:

  All the world is dark.

  But together we build light;

  shared, it keeps us warm.

  We crossed carefully back over the log and climbed the bank up to the highway. It was long and empty in the morning light. The rain was just a sprinkle, but dark clouds promised more. Wind slipped its fingers down my collar and up my sleeves. I missed my fire already.

  Ahead, where the black road twisted out of sight between black trees and gray sky, was the mountain. I still couldn’t see it, but I could feel it more than ever. Like it was watching me. Like it was waiting for me.

  “Miles to go, buddy,” I said down to Beau with a nod. “Let’s do it.”

  I don’t know how long we walked. Miles. Hours. I don’t have numbers for it. The days and the cold and the food and the journey had taken their toll on my body. My legs made me work for each step, and my stomach threatened to throw up the little breakfast I’d had. My head was full of a fierce pain trying to push its way out through my eyes. I just looked at the empty road right in front of my feet and put a foot there, then did it again. And again. Beau ambled beside me, tongue out, tail wagging. He looked up at me from time to time, and when he did I tried to give him a smile.

  I was lost in thoughts that were as dark as the clouds that hid the mountain. Thoughts of the past years, the seven years since that summer phone call made my mom cry. Thoughts of doctors’ offices, hospital beds, nurses with kind voices and sad eyes, cheerful cards from classroom friends. Notes from best friends. I thought about the people I’d left behind. My mom. My dad. Jessie. I thought about my grandpa, who used to make me blush when he called me his hero. He’d given me that silver pocket watch and I’d carried it everywhere. I’d loved it — until things got worse and its ticking sounded more like dark footsteps coming up behind me. I loved the watch until I started hating time. And how it ran out.

  And, a little, I thought about what was coming. About what I was walking toward, up ahead there in the clouds. About where I was going, and what I was doing.

  I was every different kind of sad there is. And every kind of determined, too. In all that I thought of, I never thought of stopping.

  I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice when the truck pulled up beside me and slowed down. I saw Beau perk his ears and look over, but I was too sick and too tired to notice the man through the window and how he was looking at me.

  I didn’t notice until he rolled the window down and the sour-sweet smell of cigar smoke hit my nose. Beau growled.

  “Hey, kid,” he hollered through the rain. “Get in. And don’t bother saying no.”

  Another morning.

  New light, new day, same worry.

  A nightmare that stays.

  Jessie had been chased by dark dreams all night and she woke up tired. The bed was warm, and she didn’t want to leave it. She didn’t want to have to face anything, or anyone.

  “Come on, mi amor,” her mom said from the doorway. “You should try to go to school today. You won’t have to think about it so much. I’ve got cereal waiting for you.”

  School. Everyone would know about Mark running away, of course. It had been all over the news. Everyone would act weird. They all knew he was her best friend. Her teacher would treat her different. The kids would all whisper. She’d be completely alone.

  God — would they call his name at attendance? Would that be worse than skipping it?

  The counselor would probably try and talk to her. The counselor always tried to talk to her. But there was only ever one person she really wanted to talk to.

  She was afraid that somehow they would all know. She could hide it from just her mom’s eyes, or just his parents’ eyes, or the police. But there would be so many eyes on her, all the time.

  You can’t fit a secret in a backpack.

  But worst of all: It would all be without him. He was who she walked to school with. Who she sat next to in class. Who she shared lunch with. There, with all those eyes and that one little space next to her where he was supposed to be, he would feel so much more gone. And she would feel so much more alone.

  A hard fist hit her in the stomach. This is how it might always be now. Every day. With him gone. Forever. Always the empty space beside her.

  She might have to face this every day.

  But not today. She would give her life one more day to completely fall apart.

  “I’m not going,” she said when she walked into the kitchen. Her mom opened her mouth to argue but then closed it and nodded.

  “All right, baby.”

  She went back to her bed and lay down on top of the blankets and rolled onto her side. She blinked at the icy rain picking at the windows. The sun was up, somewhere. But from where she was she could see only clouds, black as funeral suits.

  Half herself missing.

  Empty desk she could not face.

  A best friend absent.

  The rain was pouring down now. I hadn’t noticed that, either, tangled in the mud of my thoughts. The wind had gotten stronger, and colder. The storm was picking up.

  “Get in,” the man repeated. He had a thick mustache and a white cowboy hat. He had one arm draped over the steering wheel, and he was leaning over the seat to shout out the passenger-side window at me.

  I just stared at him and swallowed. Beside me, Beau whined. I was gasping for breath like I’d just run a marathon. My legs ached. Rainwater ran down my back. My head hurt so bad I had to squint one eye.

  “Listen, kid, you can’t be out in this,” the man said, shaking his head. “It’s only getting worse, they say. May snow, even. Get in and I’ll give you a ride.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, thanks,” I said. I’d planned on yelling, but my voice came out raspy and weak. “I’m fine. I’ll walk.”

  The man shook his head again. “You’re crazy. You’ll catch your death of cold. Where you headin’? Paradise?”

  I bit my lip and looked up the road. A blustery howl of wind hit me, and I actually had to shift my feet to keep from stumbling. The raindrops were sharp, angry nails hammered into my jacket.

  “Yeah,” I finally answered.

  “You’re crazy,” he repeated. “That’s miles and all uphill. You’ll never make it. Hell, I couldn’t make it. Hop in.”

  “I’ve got a dog,” I said.

  “That’s fine. It’s a crappy truck.”

  “And a knife.”

  He screwed up his eyebrows.

  “Okay. Just don’t stab me with it.”

  I stood there. My brain was too fuzzy to think.

  “Look, I get it,” the man said, dropping his voice. “You’re being smart. But I ain’t a weirdo. I’m helping you out, son. You’re gonna die out here. Hop in.”

  All the lessons I’d learned from teachers and my parents told me not to get in the truck. But his eyes and his voice told me something else. A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. That’s something my grandpa used to say. It’s a dumb saying. There’s lots of bad strangers out there. But I guess just about anything can be true, sometimes.

  I opened the truck door with a rusty squeak. I picked Beau up and put him on the big bench seat first, between me and the driver. With my backpack in my hands I climbed up inside and clanged the door shut.

  The man nodded at me and put the truck in gear, and we lurched into motion. I kept my
shoulder pressed against the door and one hand on the handle, just in case.

  “Name’s Wesley,” the man said, his eyes on the road in front of him.

  “Oh, I’m, uh — Jesse,” I replied.

  The man looked at me out of the corner of one eye. “Pleasure,” he said with a little nod.

  The truck was warm. The dusty vents blew hot, dry air in my face. Whiny old country music murmured out of the speakers. There was a Styrofoam coffee cup propped up next to the gearshift and a cigar smoldering in a metal ashtray sticking out of the dashboard. The man saw me looking at it.

  “Sorry,” he said, and ground its glowing tip out. His hair and his mustache looked like they used to be light brown, but were mostly gray now. He had friendly wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Smile lines, my mom called them.

  We drove in silence for a few moments.

  “So — what business you got at Paradise?”

  I licked my lips and looked out the window. The tops of the trees were whipping in the wind. Puddles on the side of the road reflected only black sky.

  “Just sightseeing,” I said without looking at him.

  “Huh” was all he answered.

  I let the warmth of the truck cab seep through my skin, into my bones. I’d need it all for what lay ahead.

  “That’s a good dog you’ve got there,” he said, tickling Beau’s head. Beau’s tail thumped against the seat.

  “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

  “Everybody oughta have a dog,” he said thoughtfully, his hand still scratching Beau. “Dogs teach you love and kindness. They remind you what’s important.” He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “A life ain’t much of a life without a dog in it, s’what I always said.”