The Wonder of All Things

by Jason Mott

  “Dad?” Wash called, stepping out of his bedroom.

  “Hell,” Brenda said.

  Wash’s father was a tall man, tall and thin and with more wrinkles than Wash remembered. The scar on the side of his face—a memento from the car accident that took Wash’s mother—was still there, a stark and off-putting wound that seemed to twist and contort into a new version of itself whenever the man smiled.

  “Hey there, son,” Wash’s father said as the boy entered the living room.

  “What are you doing back here, Tom?” Brenda said. There was a mixture of civility and hardness in her voice, like snow draped over a wall of ice. “I suppose I could take a guess and, likely as not, that guess would be right, but I’d much rather hear you say it. I’d rather hear how you frame it, as folks say.”

  “Don’t do this, Brenda,” Tom said. He shifted his stance, and continued to look past the woman and at Wash.

  “How have you been?” Wash asked.

  “Good,” Tom said. “Boy...you’ve gotten so big. Handsome, too. You’re thirteen now.” He declared the fact, as if to prove that he had kept proper count in the years since he had last seen his son. “I imagine you’ve got a girlfriend. And if you don’t, then you’re not far off.”

  “No,” Wash replied, blushing.

  “Keeping your options open, then?” Tom asked. He laughed awkwardly in the silence that fell between them. “You got your whole life ahead of you, son. A long time to find out about women.”

  “I guess,” Wash said.

  “You watch the news much, Tom?” Brenda asked. “Is that why you’re asking about Wash’s love life?” The smile on the man’s face receded.

  “I suppose there was never any hope of this going smooth, was there, Brenda?”

  “Can’t rightly say,” Brenda said. “I suppose it’s got to go the way you’ve set it up to go. This is the way you’ve made things.”

  “Grandma...” Wash said.

  “I’m trying,” Tom said.

  “Of course you’re trying now,” Brenda replied, her voice rising. “There’s something to be gained.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How the hell else is it, then? You ain’t had time for him in years, and now you do. Can’t you see how I might find that just a little suspicious?”

  “I’m trying,” Tom said again, his voice harder.

  “Grandma,” Wash said.

  “You should have stayed away,” Brenda said. “When’s the last time you had a drink?”

  “He’s my son,” Tom replied. “Dammit, Brenda, he almost died.”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “Your son almost died, Tom. And you weren’t there.”

  “Grandma!”

  The room went silent, and Wash felt a palpable heat between the three of them, as if the door to a furnace, long kept shut, had finally been opened. His grandmother stood tall and still. She scowled at Wash’s father, as if she could make the earth open up and swallow him.

  But Tom remained there at her door, waiting, with an echo of Wash’s face hidden in the architecture of his own.

  It took a little more time and arguing but, in the end, Brenda conceded to letting Wash and Tom spend the afternoon alone together, just so long as they didn’t stray too far from the house and so long as they didn’t take Tom’s car. “No farther than you can limp off,” Brenda had said to the pair. “Doctors say he’s okay, but I’m not convinced. And the last thing I need is for him to have an episode and for me not to be there.” When Tom asked what she was afraid might happen to the boy, Brenda would only reply, “If a person could predict the unexpected, it wouldn’t be the unexpected, now would it?”

  “I suppose not,” Tom said.

  “And don’t be gone long,” Brenda added before they left. “He’s got somewhere to be.”

  She stood out back near the dog kennels and watched with disapproval as Wash and Tom made their way up into the mountain. There was a faint path that had been worn into the mountain over the years and the man and boy marched single file through the tall grass. Tom walked in front as Wash trailed behind, and before they reached the ridgeline, where they would disappear from sight, Wash looked back over his shoulder to see if his grandmother was still watching. She was. She stood like a lighthouse, tall and stoic and full of warning as, behind her, the dogs barked and pawed at their kennels, waiting to be fed.

  Then Wash and his father reached the top of the mountain and Brenda disappeared.

  “Pretty day,” Tom said, turning his eyes upward and breaking the silence between them. The sky was blue. The sun was bright.

  “Yes, sir,” Wash said.

  “I hate to say this,” Tom said, “but I’m not totally sure what to do now. I’d hoped to take you to a movie or something. Or, at the very least, to grab a bite to eat somewhere.” He huffed. “But, well, your grandmother...she’s...”

  “Protective,” Wash said.

  “Yeah,” Tom replied. “That’s the word I was looking for.” He turned and looked back at Wash. “So now I guess we just go for a walk through the woods.”

  “That’s fine,” Wash said.

  They marched in silence for a few minutes.

  “Do you still sing?” Wash asked. He could scarcely remember a thing about the man, but his memory was full of his father singing. There was a collection of moments that clouded his head, moments in which his father was holding a banjo or guitar in his hands, his face contorted awkwardly as the passion of the song overtook him. In those brief years when Tom was a part of Wash’s life, the man always filled the air with the tinny sound of bluegrass and folk songs. And when he went from Wash’s life, the music stayed.

  “I’ve been learning a lot of murder ballads,” Wash continued. “Ava says they’re morbid, but she actually likes them.”

  “You’re singing now?” Tom asked.

  “I try,” Wash replied. “But my voice...well, I don’t think I’m any good.”

  “Stop singing,” Tom said sharply. “Just let it go. It won’t get you anywhere. If you ask me, you should give up music altogether.” Tom’s steps seemed to fall more heavily, as though he were treading upon his own regrets. Then he asked, “You do any camping?”

  “A little bit,” Wash replied. The sun was growing warmer and he was beginning to sweat. “Ava and I have camped up here a few times.”

  “You spend a lot of time with her, don’t you?”

  “I suppose,” Wash said.

  “You like her?”

  “I guess so.”

  “No,” Tom said, smiling. “I mean, do you like her. You’re too old to pretend you don’t know what I mean when I ask that kind of a question.”

  Wash didn’t answer.

  “You a virgin?” Tom asked.

  “I’m thirteen.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Tom said. “You wouldn’t be the first thirteen-year-old to have sex, and you wouldn’t be the last. I’m not accusing you of anything, I’m just asking.”

  Wash looked down at the ground and marched forward behind his father. “I’m thirteen,” he repeated.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Tom said. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you. Okay? This is the kind of stuff boys are supposed to be able to talk to their dads about. My dad and I, we didn’t really talk much. But that doesn’t mean that’s how it’s got to be between you and me.” Tom scratched the top of his head and sighed. “Did she really do what they said?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. “Did she really heal you? I mean, really and truly. It’s not just some scam, some hoax or something?” When his son did not reply to his questions, Tom scratched the top of his head again. “Wish I had a beer,” he said nervously. “I’m a little out of practice with all this. I’m not sure if I’m doing anything right.”

  They walked for a little while longer and eventually came to a clearing beneath the shade of a large patch of pine trees. Tom paced in a circle, as though looking for something. “How are y
ou at making a fire?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Wash said. He sat on the ground and folded his legs. He was more tired than he expected and the coolness of the shade from the pine trees felt good against his skin. “I should have worn sunblock,” he said.

  Tom laughed. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “So, can you start a fire?”

  “With matches.”

  “No,” Tom said. “I mean, can you start a fire from scratch? Without matches or a lighter.”

  Wash thought for a moment. “Probably,” he said. “I’ve read books that tell you how to do it. Do you like Jack London?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Tom replied. He was on his knees in the edges of the tall grass surrounding the clearing. He picked up dried pine needles and some dried pieces of wood. “That’s what we’ll do,” Tom said as if finishing a thought. He rose to his feet and came to the center of the clearing and placed the pine needles and wood into a pile. Tom walked around the clearing, kicking rocks, examining them as he did. “The good thing about being up here is that it’s never really too difficult to find what you need to start a fire,” he said. “That won’t be the case everywhere, of course. I’ve started fires in places where there probably should have never been a fire.” He kicked more stones, and there was a slight bit of frustration in his movements. “I really don’t want to have to do this with a pair of sticks,” he said, a hint of laughter at the end of his sentence. “Takes forever and, while I won’t say it’s not worth the effort—because if you ever get into a situation where you really need a fire, any amount of effort is worth it—today’s just one of those days where I don’t really think it’ll give us what we’re looking for. You know?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wash replied.

  “Aha!” Tom shouted, squatting into a pile of brush. “Here’s what the doctor ordered.” He stood holding a pair of small rocks. He brushed the dirt from them. “Yes,” he said, “these will work just fine.” He came back into the center of the clearing and kneeled and began stacking the bits of wood and grass together. He stretched out on his belly. “It’s difficult,” Tom said. “More difficult than people ever really understand. Everybody thinks that, if they had to, they could start a fire. But the truth of it is that there are few people who could really do it. Not many folks understand the amount of nurturing and care it takes. Every moment it’s on the verge of dying on you. Every single moment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wash said. He found a stick and traced absentminded patterns back and forth in the dirt.

  When Tom had arranged the pine needles and grass in a satisfactory pile he held up the two rocks for Wash. “Come here,” he said. “Come and look at what I’ve done.”

  Reluctantly, Wash went over and kneeled across from his father.

  “The key is to think upward,” Tom said. “The fire has to start at the bottom so you put your thinnest, driest stuff at the bottom.” He struck the two rocks together. A small spark danced in the air, and then disappeared. “If the wind is high,” Tom continued, “you’ve got to be sure that you’re out of it. Block it with something, or pick a better place. You wouldn’t try to start a fire like this out here in the open if it were windy. Wouldn’t ever work.”

  “You can also use glasses,” Wash said.

  “What’s that?” Tom answered, striking the stones together, his attention focused squarely on the dry grass at the bottom of the pile.

  “If you wear glasses, and if they’re thick enough, you can use them to focus the sunlight,” Wash said, an ember of excitement in his voice. “It’ll focus the sunlight enough so that it heats it, just like a magnifying glass, and that’ll start the fire.”

  “That sounds like something you read in a book somewhere,” Tom said. “I don’t know which one, but I guess it’s true enough. Just be careful of believing what you read in books. Books are okay enough, I suppose, but too many people forget that there’s a real world out there and that they can touch it, feel it, smell it.” He continued striking the stones together and, slowly, a small thread of smoke began to rise from the pile of brush. “There it is,” he said. He began blowing gently into the base of the fire. “There we go,” he whispered.

  But Wash did not see. He looked off into the distance and thought of all the books he had read, all the places he had visited in his mind, all the stories that swirled around inside of him each and every day, like an ocean he had been building up inside himself over the years, page by page, word by word. The ocean was vast and limitless, filled with joy and sadness, terror and betrayal, the deaths of friends and the final fate of enemies. And it was at this moment, as his father lay on the ground, making a fire, as he kneeled across from him, watching the man huff and puff gently into the growing fire, not looking up, not looking around at the world, but only looking into the fire, into the immediate obstacle before him, this was when Wash understood both who his father was and who his father was not.

  “There we go,” Tom said, smiling. The small thread of smoke had grown into a long, silver chain rising up out of the air. Tom took more small pine needles and placed them on the growing flame. The fire sizzled and the flame leaped up. “Now we’re making something happen,” he said. “Now we’re building a future.”

  For the rest of the day Wash did not ask his father about singing or about books. He gave up talk of folk songs and he did not make any more references of characters he’d read about or scenes he had enjoyed. He only listened as his father talked about fire and all the different ways to build and maintain it. He answered “Yes, sir,” at the proper intervals. He smiled when he felt it was what is father wanted. He spent the afternoon watching the dream of who he thought his father would be if he ever came back to him die, piece by piece, in the firelight.

  Yet he could not deny the way that being with the father who had been gone for so long made him remember the family they once were. He remembered the small things: the lavender scent of his mother’s hair, the roughness of his father’s hands as the man lifted him into the air and spun him the way fathers sometimes did. He remembered the sugared strawberries his mother used to make. He remembered the way his father argued with sports announcers while watching football games. And he remembered how it all ended.

  They were in the car together, rumbling over the highway with Tom behind the wheel. He was a construct of muscles and brown hair staring out through the windshield and chatting, now again, with Wash’s mother about what she picked out for dinner. Wash was buckled into the backseat, barely tall enough to look out of the window. He lolled back in the seat and watched the clouds as they passed in their predictable patterns, punctuated now and then by the upper quarters of buildings that he remembered from previous shopping trips. His mother turned on the radio and sang along with it and he sang along when he could. There was the sound of their voices mingled with the music and the sound of cars passing from time to time as the blue sky swept along silently, stretching out over the entirety of the world.

  And then there was a squeal of the tires and Tom cursed and the sky turned at an awkward angle. The angle steepened until the boy could understand that the car was rolling, over and over. The car trembled and Wash was thrown back and forth in his seat belt and he was frightened. And then, as quickly as it started, everything came to a silent stop. The car was on its side and Wash was crying and calling for his mother. She hung from her seat belt at an awkward angle with her arms swinging limply like pendulums back and forth above the earth.

  “Mama! Mama!” Wash called.

  “Stay still, Wash,” Tom said. He was on the side of the car that was on the ground and he wrestled with his seat belt until it unfastened. Wash cried and rubbed his eyes and grappled with his own seat belt. “Just stay where you are for a second, son,” Tom continued. There was a tremble in his voice, a wince of pain. It was then that Wash saw the blood.

  The glass of the car window had broken and there was a large open wound stretching across the side of his father’s face. Tom reached up with one han
d and touched it and grimaced and the blood was beginning to flow. Wash had never seen his father bleed. It felt like a broken promise.

  Wash’s mother still hung limply in her seat belt. Tom put his arms around her unconscious body and carefully cradled her neck and, after some effort, released the seat belt. She fell like a marionette doll into his arms. He collapsed beneath the weight of her, barely able to stand. Wash cried harder. “It’s okay, son,” Tom said. “I’m coming to get you. Let me just get Mommy squared away.” He placed her gently at his feet—he was standing on the passenger’s side door, still getting his bearings in the sideways car. Then he maneuvered his way back over the front seat and unbuckled the boy’s seat belt and caught him when he fell. “We’re going to be okay,” he said.

  But everything was not okay. It was not until she was completely out of the car that Wash and Tom saw the wound on the side of her head. The medical examiner would eventually tell them that she had hit her head against the frame of the car as the car rolled down the side of the mountain. Death was instantaneous.

  Nothing much worked for Tom after that. He took to drinking and lying in bed for the whole of the day. In the late hours of the night Wash would waken and hear his father crying behind the closed door of his bedroom. When he knocked on the door and asked his father what was wrong, the man did not answer. He did not yell for the child to go back to bed. He did not try to hide his tears. He only continued wailing and calling his wife’s name while his son sat on the other side of the door, small and powerless.

  Wash began spending the weekends at his grandmother’s after that. And then the weekends spilled over into weekdays until, finally, Tom arrived one day and sat on the couch beside his son and said, in a flat and hollow tone, “I’m leaving for a little while.” The gash Tom sustained during the car crash had healed over, leaving the scar that would remain for the rest of his days. It was long and garish and impossible to ignore, like the emptiness death leaves in its wake.