Before Familiar Woods

by Ian Pisarcik

“Bad luck.”

  The man looked to the boy. “I guess,” he said. He waited a moment and then pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “I knew I’d heard your name before. I couldn’t place it until now—but I knew I’d heard it.”

  “That right?”

  The man nodded once. “My wife told me about your boy. She heard about it on the television. Your boy and that other boy. I was overseas when it happened.”

  “You got anything else you want to say about it?”

  “No. I’m sorry about it is all. We used to camp up there some for the Scouts.”

  Ruth took a step away from the ladder. “You said Jett sent you?”

  “Yes ma’am. She said you help people out sometimes—when they got job interviews and things like that.”

  “You got a job interview, then. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Over at Miller Lumber.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Next town over. Wilmington.”

  “Only lumberyard I know of is Russ’s out by the baseball field.”

  “The guy said it wasn’t far from here. Just down Bennet Hill a piece.”

  “Well, that may be. My husband would know better than I would.”

  Milk took a step forward. “Problem is, I don’t want Daniel sitting in the truck during the interview. I don’t want them thinking I don’t have no one to watch him.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “Not yet. I’ll work that piece out, though.”

  Ruth looked over at the boy. He was studying the ladder, and she thought that was a good sign. That his interest was in what Ruth was doing rather than who she was—who his father might be trying to leave him with.

  “Jett said you might be able to help on sort of a temporary basis.”

  “I might.”

  “Said you don’t charge nothing for it.”

  “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”

  “Well.” Milk looked over at the boy. “I guess that’s what I’m asking. I guess I’m asking for some help.”

  “I’m not a babysitter.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  The man lit his cigarette and nodded. “There are some things Daniel could stand to learn.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Lots of things, I guess. He don’t know nothing but how to watch television. That’s his mother’s fault.”

  “Well, I work with clay. I’m not sure that’s what you had in mind.”

  “Working with your hands is good.”

  “I try to teach other things, too. My students are polite and they learn to observe things—to see things most people let pass unnoticed.”

  “He’s pretty shy.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first boy to be shy.”

  The man took a drag from his cigarette. “Clay,” he said. “Like the statues in the museums? The ones without hands?”

  “I mostly do ceramic wares and things. Bailed jugs and lidded jars. But the children do sculptures like the ones you’re talking about. They all got hands, though—the ones I remember.” Ruth looked to the boy. “Most of the children prefer animals. Or monsters. Some kids only make monsters. Can’t get them to make nothing but monsters. Your boy, though—he looks like maybe he likes animals. That’d be my guess.”

  “I don’t know. We never kept no animals.”

  “You ever work with clay, Daniel?”

  The boy wiped his nose. “Some,” he said.

  “Did you like it?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, that’s what I do here. I work with clay. Do you want to see where I do that?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Is that all right with your dad?”

  “That’s fine by me.”

  Ruth started over the dead grass toward the woodshed. Her shins burned from all the walking and her back felt like it was locking up on her. She could still hear the woodpecker in the distance, but she could hear the ticking of the truck engine as well and the footsteps of the boy and his father on the frozen ground as they followed behind her.

  She guessed the boy’s father was in his late twenties, and she wondered what he had done to get himself involved with Jett. It was usually the mothers that came to her. She couldn’t remember the last time Jett had sent a father. She couldn’t remember if it had ever happened at all.

  “My husband and I built this shed together. I made sure to put in a lot of windows. I like it when the light comes in. I like to be able to see the trees while I’m working. Of course, we got nothing but trees around here.” Ruth opened the door. “You don’t got to wipe your feet.”

  The boy entered the shed and stood in the middle. He focused his eyes on the twenty-six-liter oven with the built-in fan.

  “That’s for when you’re done,” Ruth said. “You put the clay in there to harden it.”

  “Like a kiln.”

  “That’s right. That’s exactly right. You got one of these at school?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I got another one out back—behind the shed. It’s a wood-fire kiln. A bourry box is what they call it. I don’t use it in the winter, though.”

  The boy went over to where several white smocks hung from a nail in the wall. He kept his arms close to his sides like he was afraid he might knock something over. “We have these at school too,” he said.

  “Some people like to wear them. But you don’t have to. That part is up to you.”

  “You do all these?” Milk asked. He pointed toward the shelf at the sculptures and the plaster masks.

  “Most of those belong to my students. The one on the end there is mine, though.”

  Milk walked over to the shelf and picked up the sculpture on the end.

  “I did that one when we were making portraits so the kids could have something to look at.”

  “Damn,” Milk said. “It could be in a museum.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You could make some money off it at least.”

  “Not in North Falls. Not unless you fashioned one end so it’d scrape ice off a windshield or made it big enough to plug a stud cavity. Then maybe you could sell it next to the hand warmers in the gas station for about ninety-nine cents.”

  The man studied the sculpture. “Who is it supposed to be?”

  “It’s not supposed to be no one.”

  “Well, it’s real good. It seems like it ought to be someone.”

  * * *

  LATER, AFTER THEY had gone through the rest of the shed and the boy had even got the wheel spinning just to see how it worked, Milk and Ruth stood surrounded by the withered birches, talking in the half-light.

  “I don’t like to charge nothing,” Ruth said. “But I got requirements. You can think of them like payment if you want.”

  “Requirements?”

  Ruth looked toward the boy, who sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with the seat belt. “You show up on time. Every time.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Every time,” Ruth repeated. “If you don’t know when you’ll be back, that’s fine—that’s what you tell your son, and then you get here when you get here. But if you tell him you’ll pick him up at five, you better be here at five or else we’re done. A boy’s got to be able to expect things.”

  Milk dropped his cigarette on the gravel, rubbed it out.

  “Also, you show up sober or he don’t go home with you.”

  “Shit,” Milk said. “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”

  “I don’t know who I’m talking to. That’s the point.”

  “Well—that ain’t a problem.” Milk looked back at the truck. “He’s real shy.”

  “You said that already.”

  “He’s a little strange, too.”

  “All children are strange. That ain’t no crime.”

  “No. I guess not. I don’t know. He’s been with his mother for a while.”

  Ruth studied the man. His winter beard
was coming in and the underside of his chin was pink. “It takes some time,” she said. “It takes some effort. You might not think it should—you being father and son. But it does. That’s true for most everyone.”

  MILK RAYMOND

  Milk followed the rutted road. The sun split through the clouds in the distance and obscured the hills.

  “What do you think?” he said. He glanced over at his boy, who sat with his hands folded on his lap, staring out the window.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She seems nice, don’t she?”

  “I guess.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about them clay sculptures—doesn’t that seem like it would be fun?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know why she said that bit about animals.”

  “I like animals.”

  “I know. But you could make monsters, too. It’s not like you’re a kid who won’t make monsters.”

  Daniel was quiet. He started to put on his goggles.

  “Let’s leave those off a minute.”

  Daniel lowered the goggles to his lap.

  “You might even make some friends,” Milk said.

  “I’ve got friends.”

  “I’m not saying you don’t. I’m just saying you might make some more.” Milk steered around a wide pothole. “You could invite them over. Some of your friends.”

  “What would we do?”

  “I don’t know. You could show ’em the workbench—show ’em the tools.”

  The boy was quiet.

  “Or watch a movie. I could order us some pizzas.”

  They passed an unpainted barn with busted windows and sections of ripped-away siding. Milk glanced at the gas gauge and saw that it was less than a quarter full. He watched the red needle for a moment and then looked back up at the road and picked up speed. When he passed the bright-blue duplex, he felt his boy’s eyes on him.

  “I need gas,” he said.

  He followed the road through the center of town and passed a spare section of woods where he could see the brook and an outcropping of bedrock. He continued until the shoulder narrowed and he reached the gas station. Then he turned on his blinker and pulled into the lot and came to a stop in front of the pump closest to the building.

  Milk got out of the truck and took in the smell of gasoline. He looked through the window between the large advertisements and saw that the girl was working the counter. He unscrewed the cap and removed the nozzle from the pump and lifted the lever. He hit the regular-grade button several times until it finally lit up, and then he put the nozzle into the tank and pulled the trigger.

  An eighteen-wheeler rumbled by on the road. He watched the numbers on the pump rise and concentrated on the sound of the gas moving up through the hose and let go of the trigger when the number reached ten dollars. He put the nozzle back on the pump and secured the cap and opened the driver’s side door. “Wait here,” he said.

  Milk shut the door and made his way across the puddles that had formed on the lot and pulled open the door to the gas station. The bell rang.

  The girl looked up from the counter and smiled. She wore a gray long-sleeved shirt. “You come back for another Chiller?”

  “What?”

  “Another Chiller.”

  Milk looked over at the plastic machine. “No. I just need some cigarettes.”

  “Well, we got those too.” The girl watched him for a moment. Milk saw that she wore a silver eyebrow ring he hadn’t noticed before. “What kind you want?”

  “Wildhorse.”

  The girl turned from the counter to the rack of cigarettes on the wall. Milk studied her body. He guessed she wasn’t more than twenty years old.

  “You want reds or yellows?”

  “Reds is fine.”

  The girl searched the rack and pulled down a pack. She turned and placed it on the counter.

  Milk pulled out his money clip.

  “What’s your name?” the girl asked.

  “Milk.”

  “Milk?”

  Milk nodded. He took out a ten-dollar bill and set it on the counter.

  “I never heard that name before.”

  Milk shrugged.

  “I like it, though. It’s different.” The girl didn’t make a movement for the money. “You from around here? I never saw you before the last time.”

  “I been gone a few years.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Iraq.”

  “Damn. You’re in the military? I hear it’s pretty crazy over there.”

  “It’s a shit hole.”

  The girl laughed. “That sounds about the same as here.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “I only been out of the state one time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yup. Went to South Carolina with my aunt.”

  “How’d you like it?”

  “South Carolina?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Better than here. They got beaches. And it’s warm. It don’t snow there—not ever. I didn’t do nothing but lay on the beach in my bathing suit the whole time.”

  Milk looked toward the window. He could see his boy sitting in the passenger seat fiddling with something under the dashboard. “Maybe I should get another one of them Chillers,” he said.

  The girl smiled and came out from behind the counter and made her way to the machine. Milk followed her. She wore the same black pants tucked into tall camel-colored boots.

  “You want the same kind?” the girl asked.

  “I think so.”

  The girl grabbed a cup from the stack. She put the cup under the spout and pressed it against the lever. The machine made a gurgling sound, but nothing came out. “Shit,” she said.

  “It’s all right,” Milk said. “I don’t need it that bad.”

  “I got more in the back.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Wait here,” the girl said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  The girl went behind the counter and disappeared into the back room. Milk stood by the machine studying the blue and red straws and picturing the girl. There were no girls like her in Iraq. Not even prostitutes like they had in Vietnam. The only girls Milk saw that looked anything like her were the ones he conjured up in his mind while taking long showers.

  He looked at the display of air fresheners. There was one of a pine tree and one of a Magic 8-Ball and one of an American flag. He lifted the American flag from the hook attached to the grid wall and saw that it was made in China.

  “Hey.”

  Milk looked up. The girl stood behind the double doors, motioning for him to come to her. He looked out the window at his boy and then put the flag back on the hook.

  The back room was the size of a small bathroom. It was lined with shelves holding cardboard boxes. Inside the room was a door to a separate room that looked even smaller. Through the window in the door, Milk could see a desk and a file cabinet. The girl pulled open the door and went inside and Milk followed. When he got inside, she grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to her and started kissing him on the mouth.

  Milk could feel himself getting hard, and he pressed his body against hers and backed her up to the desk. She pulled back for a moment.

  “How long you been home—from Iraq?”

  “Seven days.”

  The girl shook her head and pulled Milk toward her and started kissing him again. She began to pull down her pants, and Milk tried to help her with one hand while unbuckling his belt with the other. When her pants were down, he turned her around so that her hands were on the desk, and he pulled the thin piece of fabric to the side with one hand and guided himself into her with the other. She made a sound like the wind had been knocked out of her, and then she started breathing heavily. He grabbed her tits and then the damp between her legs and then he grabbed her waist with both hands. He felt his heart racing and sweat moved down his forehead an
d into his eyes. He ran his fingers up her neck and felt the tiny clasp of the chain necklace she wore. He closed his eyes and thought about Jessica and how he used to pick her up at her grandmother’s house before Daniel was born and drive her out to the pond, where they would hop the gate and sit on the edge of the dock and look across the water at the large homes and imagine that they might live in one someday. He thought about the last time they went to the pond. Before he deployed. Jessica had bought him a gold chain with a pendant that said ALWAYS UNDER THE SAME SKY. It was supposed to make him feel like they would never be far apart, but it made him feel just the opposite. It made him feel small.

  He let go of the girl’s necklace and grabbed the back of her neck. The first naked woman he’d seen in Iraq was in a field behind a bombed-out mosque while he was casualty collecting with the rest of the men. Picking up pieces of dead soldiers and tossing the pieces next to rolled-up body bags. The smell of piss and cordite clinging to the air. He came across a headless shape with its stomach unzipped and its legs drenched in blood. It looked different from the other gore, and he grabbed the leg and saw what was different.

  He tightened his grip on the girl’s neck and pushed himself harder against her backside. He felt himself going soft. He tried to push the image of the body parts drenched in blood from his mind, and when he finally did he saw Jessica again, sitting on the dock, but he could smell the cordite and the piss and decay. It seemed to hover over the water like a fog. He felt his chest grow heavy and he continued to push against the girl’s backside, but he was only slapping his body against hers.

  “Hey,” she said. “Hey.”

  Milk opened his eyes and took a step backward. The cold air swept over him and he looked down at himself.

  “What’s wrong?” the girl asked.

  Milk started to pull his pants up. “How old are you?”

  “What?”

  “You ain’t more than a kid.”

  “What are you talking about? You know I ain’t no kid.”

  “What are you, sixteen?”

  “I’m twenty-two. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Bullshit,” Milk said.

  “Hey, you don’t got to be embarrassed. It don’t mean nothing.”

  “I ain’t embarrassed. I just ain’t attracted to bony-ass sixteen-year-old girls.”

  “Fuck you.”