The Woodlander

by Kirk Watson

  John and Sharon Grey

  23 Arbor Trail

  Langley Grove, Woodland

  He opened the mailbox and peered inside, finding a single envelope from The Langley Post.

  Probably another assignment to turn down, he thought, or a severance letter.

  He hadn’t accepted a single writing assignment in six months, but still the letters came. He stuffed the envelope in his coat pocket and opened the gate to his front yard. Quietly closing it behind him, he sneaked a peek up at Mrs. Nubblin’s windows, still mercifully dark. He smiled at his stealthiness.

  I’ll not be getting any stick tonight, you old bitty.

  He turned and tripped over a loose branch in his yard, and for the second time that night, he fell face-first in the snow.

  He rolled over and wiped the snow from his glasses. “Oh, for crying out loud! That’s twice!”

  A light appeared in the upstairs window of the beech tree next door. Looking up, John saw Mrs. Nubblin standing in the window with a candle in her paw. She stared down at him with a frown.

  “Oh, hello there, Mrs. Nubblin!” he called. “Lovely evening for snow angels, don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Nubblin just shook her head at the fallen squirrel. Even from the yard, John could practically hear her tsking. After the requisite shaming period had passed, she blew out the candle and disappeared back into her tree.

  John closed his eyes and shivered. “You old mop…”

  He picked himself up and walked to his door, fishing a key from his coat pocket. After a few drunken attempts, he managed to stab the key into the lock and open the door. The stale air inside washed over him, the smell an odd combination of mildewing paper and lilacs. He hung his coat on the coatrack and lit a lamp, revealing a small but cozy room. A set of stairs in the back spiraled up the inside perimeter of the tree.

  He took the lamp with him as he climbed to the second floor. Passing through the small kitchen, he ignored the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and entered the narrow hallway. As he headed down the hall, he paused halfway at an open door and peered inside.

  John’s office was a mess. Unopened mail overflowed from the basket on his desk (mostly cards from friends and family), and a stack of newspapers that were piled on the floor nearly reached the ceiling, threatening to topple over. The papers were mostly unread, but John had never bothered to cancel his subscription. As an employee of the Langley Post, he received the paper for free, but he reminded himself to cancel his subscription in the likely event that he would soon be fired.

  He entered the office and closed the door behind him. Along the wall, his journalism awards stared at him from a shelf packed with trophies and plaques: Best New Writer, Journalist of the Year, Woodland Press Freedom Heroes, The Sapling Prize. Normally well-polished, the awards now sat under a layer of dust. An empty space lingered conspicuously in the middle of the shelf, as if the most prominent of the awards had gone missing.

  He passed by the shelf with hardly a glance; the awards meant little to him now. He placed the lamp down and sat in his chair. On the desk was a typewriter, and in the typewriter, a single sheet of paper:

  By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead.

  The sentence was all John had managed to write over the last six months. He stared at the page, reading the words over and over, then sighed. He opened his desk drawer and took out a picture frame. Holding it under the lamp, he studied the picture for a long while, tracing his finger along its frame before setting it down. Reaching back into the drawer, he pulled out a near-empty bottle of acorn spirits and placed it to the right of the typewriter. He paused for a moment to turn the bottle so the label faced him just right, then reached back into the drawer and pulled out a revolver. He checked that its chambers were loaded and the percussion caps were in place, then set it to the left of the typewriter.

  He took a deep breath. “Well, let’s finish this.”

  Words had always come easy to John Grey. He had made a name for himself writing for the Langley Post, rising quickly to the rank of chief investigative reporter. His boss, a fox named Mr. Finn, often gave him first crack at an assignment, knowing the prolific squirrel would always finish an article on time. The old fox was a tough editor, but fair, and the two had grown rather close over the years despite their many arguments.

  It was also Mr. Finn who had told John to take some time off six months ago, and surely it was Mr. Finn who kept sending him assignments, despite his failure to respond. John felt guilty for neglecting his old friend, but he didn’t have a choice. He had lost his gift for writing; the words now eluded him, hiding just out of his reach in the dark corners of his mind. Over the last six months, he hadn’t written a single article.

  But now he braced himself for his ultimate assignment, his final sign-off. He looked down at the typewriter:

  By the time you read this, I’ll already be dead.

  In what had become a nightly ritual, he lowered his paws to the typewriter and let his fingers fall to their familiar positions. Closing his eyes, he waited for his digits to fly across the keys, as they had for so many years, dancing as if they had a mind of their own. But instead of dancing, his paws began to tremble. Sweat dripped from his brow as he attempted to will them still.

  Finish it! Just say goodbye and be done with it!

  It was no use. With a curse, he balled his traitorous paws into fists and placed them in his lap. He turned his attention to the revolver. The shiny pistol gleamed under the soft lamplight, beckoning him to hold it.

  Leaving a note is a pretty pretentious thing to do anyway, he thought. Besides, who would care to read it? I’m all alone now…

  He picked up the revolver, feeling the weight of the gun, the smoothness of its grip, the coldness of its steel. With a trembling paw, he raised the pistol to his temple and closed his eyes. He placed a finger on the trigger.

  Moments passed. A faint sound broke the silence:

  Tink, tink, tink.

  He opened his eyes and glanced at his shaking paw; his wedding band was tapping against the metal frame of the gun.

  Tink, tink, tink.

  He took in a sharp breath.

  Bloody hell! What am I doing?

  He returned the revolver to the drawer, all at once feeling very sober. Holding his head in his paws, he sighed.

  You can’t do anything right anymore, John. Why even bother going on?

  He picked up the picture frame and held it under the lamp.

  Sharon…

  His eyes turned to the bottle on his desk. Now, here was something he could still do; he did it often, and he did it well. The acorn spirits were hardly smooth, but he had come to look forward to the burn.

  One pain replaces another, at least for a little while.

  He removed the cork and finished off the bottle with a single pull, feeling the warmth travel from his throat to his belly. His head grew light and the room began to spin. He laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes. Darkness overtook him.

  Chapter 2

  BICYCLE

  Whirr-hiss-bump-whirr-hiss-bump.

  The bicycle sped across the meadow. The sun had just begun to peek over the hills, beckoning the flowers to reach for its warm glow, and the grass was still slick with morning dew. Birds chirped from the trees, startled by the early intruder speeding through their vicinity. Some of the younger birds took pursuit of the rider, circling overhead and playfully diving in front him before swooping back into the sky.

  Young John Grey smiled and pedaled faster.

  Whirr-hiss-bump-whirr-hiss-bump.

  The bicycle was in poor shape; its rusty chain groaned with each turn of the pedals, the handlebars didn’t sit quite straight in their clamps, and the front tire bore an odd protuberance that gave it a decidedly lumpy ride. It was built for an adult, and at a rest John’s toes could barely touch the ground, but he loved it just the same. The bicycle meant freedom—freedom from his working-class neighborhood and freedom from having
to walk his paper route.

  He had worked for a year to save up for the bicycle, delivering papers for the newly established Langley Post. The Post’s owner, a young fox named Mr. Finn, had built the printing press in the industrial part of town, not far from John’s own modest home. John’s father, William Grey, had accepted a part-time job cleaning the pressroom at night. When William had first told his son about the new printing press, John’s eyes had grown as wide as walnuts.

  John loved reading. He devoured the second-hand books his father brought home with alarming speed, often reading the same one repeatedly until its well-turned pages threatened to disintegrate. He had begged his father to take him to see the press for weeks, hardly talking of anything else until his father, as usual, gave in to his young son’s request.

  They made the journey early one Sunday morning, the only time of the week William was not working one of his many odd jobs. When they arrived, the press was in full bustle as the workers hurried to ready the voluminous Sunday edition for delivery. Standing outside, John pressed his face against the pressroom window, watching in awe as the reams of paper rolled through the mechanical plates, and the latest reports on politics and fashion were stamped in black onto the pristine white pages.

  Outside the pressroom, a group of paperboys stood in line next to their bicycles, waiting to receive their morning deliveries. The young foxes, rabbits, and squirrels were all a few years older than John—teenagers at least. Mr. Finn strolled out of the press with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow to greet them personally. He handed a bundle of newspapers to the rabbit in front of the line, along with a card denoting each subscriber’s address. The young rabbit tucked the papers into his bicycle’s basket and sped off.

  “Be sure to collect from Mrs. Schilling, Walter!” Mr. Finn called after him. “Don’t take any excuses this time, and don’t take any lip, either. She’s three weeks past due. I’m not running a lending library, you know!”

  John watched the whole process with fascination. One of the workers stepped out of the pressroom, his long night finally having drawn to a close. The wiry otter fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his ink-stained paws. William recognized the press foreman and walked over to greet him.

  “Hello, Robert, ” William said, extending a paw.

  “Why, hello, Will,” the otter said between puffs. “But it’s best if we don’t shake.” He held up his inky paws.

  “Right,” William said, retracting his own. “I see you’re burning the midnight oil again.”

  “Yeah, that Sunday edition is a real sonofafish, but it pays time-and-a-half, so I don’t mind. What brings you down, Will? Isn’t it your day off?”

  “I thought I’d bring my son over to see the operation. He’s been pestering me for weeks.”

  “Your son? Well, it’s high-time I met this whiz-kid of yours you’re always bragging about.”

  “He’s right here. John, I’d like you to meet—” William turned, but John was gone. “Well, he was right here a moment ago.”

  “Uh-huh,” Robert said, taking another drag. “Sure he was.”

  William scowled at the otter. “John!” he called out. “John Grey, where are you?”

  “Tell me,” the otter said, spitting on the ground. “This son of yours, is he a little fellow?”

  “Yes, about yay tall,” William said, holding his paw at his waist.

  “And is he wearing a blue cap?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Where is he?”

  The otter squinted and pointed with his cigarette. William traced the line until he spotted him, and his mouth dropped in shock. There stood John in the back of the paperboy line, waiting to receive papers from Mr. Finn. As the last paperboy pedaled away, John stepped up to greet the fox.

  “Why, hello,” Mr. Finn said to John. “And who might you be?”

  “My name is John Grey,” John said, extending his paw.

  Mr. Finn shook his little paw. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Grey. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to deliver your newspapers, Mr. Finn.”

  Mr. Finn raised his eyebrows. “I see. Aren’t you a little young to be a paperboy?”

  “I may be small, but I promise I won’t let you down.”

  “And where’s your bicycle? You can’t deliver newspapers without a bicycle.”

  John looked at the ground. “Oh. Well, I haven’t got one yet. But I can walk a hundred miles!”

  Mr. Finn chuckled. “Is that right? Let me see your feet.”

  John was showing the soles of his feet to Mr. Finn, who was nodding gravely and feigning great interest, when William came running up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Finn,” William said. “I’m afraid my boy got away from me. I just brought him down to see the press. Come on, John, let’s go.”

  “So this is the boy you’re always talking about, William?” Mr. Finn asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry if he disturbed you. We’ll be leaving now.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Mr. Finn bent down and looked John in the eye. “Tell me, John, why do you want to be a paperboy for the Langley Post?”

  “I want to learn all about the newspaper business, Mr. Finn,” John said. “Someday, I’ll be your greatest reporter.”

  Mr. Finn guffawed. “Well, you certainly have a reporter’s temerity. But I’m sorry, John, you’re just too young. Besides, you have no bicycle. Delivering papers is grueling work. You have to deliver come rain or shine, in the sweltering heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter. Why don’t you come back to see me in a few years, if you’re still interested.”

  John dropped his head in disappointment. He turned to walk away, then paused. He spun back around, standing defiant and puffing out his little chest. “Mr. Finn, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  William stepped in front of his son, looking chagrined. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Finn. He does that sometimes. Come along, John; it’s time to go home.” William dragged John away by the paw as Mr. Finn looked on in amusement.

  The next day, John was true to his word, showing up at the printing press at dawn. He waited in line with the older paperboys, ignoring their scoffs and derisive comments. The line dwindled as the last of the paperboys received their deliveries and sped off on their bicycles, until once again John was alone with Mr. Finn.

  The fox overturned his now-empty basket and placed a foot on it. He leaned down with his paws on his knee. “Why, Mr. Grey, I see you’re back.”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. “I’m here to deliver your papers.”

  “Humph,” Mr. Finn snorted. He held up the empty basket. “As you can see, Mr. Grey, the papers are all gone. I have no work for you. Why don’t you come see me in a few years when you’re a little older?”

  John looked Mr. Finn in the eye. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Mr. Finn tucked the basket under his arm and gave the young squirrel a disapproving look. “Now, listen to me carefully, young Master Grey. I have no work for you. Don’t you come back here tomorrow. I’ll have no work for you then, either. Now run along and play.” He waved his paw at John dismissively.

  John didn’t budge. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Mr. Finn threw up his paws in exasperation. “Don’t bother, Mr. Grey,” he called as he walked back into the printing press. “You’re wasting my time. I’ll have no work for you tomorrow!”

  John stared after the fox for several long minutes, then with some reluctance, he turned and went home.

  The next morning, he was back. And the morning after that. And the morning after that. Each day, he waited in line with the older paperboys, and each day, Mr. Finn sent him home empty-pawed. Three weeks passed, and John showed up every morning just to be turned away, always vowing, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Then one night a terrible summer storm blew into Langley. It would come to be known as the storm of the century. Lightning bolts flashed across the sky, and thunder roared across the meadows. As dawn approached, the
rain fell in buckets, turning the cobblestone streets into rivers.

  Mr. Finn looked apprehensively through the printing press window. None of his employees had dared the storm to show up for work, leaving poor Mr. Finn to print the entire edition by himself. He had thus far only managed half the usual number of pages, but he had staked his reputation on the paper’s timely delivery, regardless of the elements. He looked up at the flashing sky—it didn’t look like he would be able to keep that promise today.

  At least it wasn’t the Sunday edition, he thought, wondering how many subscribers he would lose in this debacle. The startup costs for the press had been enormous; he had taken out a second mortgage on his tree just to finance the operation. The paper was starting to break even, but he needed every subscriber (and then some) just to pay the lease. He sighed as he bundled the meager papers into a basket and headed to the loading dock, hoping a few of the paperboys might have braved the storm. He opened the door.

  There in the driving rain stood a small figure, alone on the loading dock and completely drenched. He was bundled in a coat many sizes too large, with the hood pulled down over his face.

  Mr. Finn shielded his eyes from the rain, staring at the lone figure in the dark. “Walter? Is that you?”

  John pulled back his hood and pushed the dripping fur from his eyes. “It’s me, Mr. Finn.”

  Mr. Finn’s eyes grew wide. “John Grey? What are you doing out there? It’s pouring!”

  “I’m here to deliver your papers. I told you I’d be back.”

  “So you did,” Mr. Finn said, looking around the loading dock. “Where are the other paperboys?”

  “There’s nobody else, Mr. Finn; it’s just me.”

  Mr. Finn looked down at the soaked young squirrel, then his basketful of undelivered papers, then up at the turbulent skies, then back down at John again. He took one last look back at his beloved printing press before biting his lip. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”