Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  The only other Governing Principles dealt mainly with other events where attendance was mandatory for all members of the Surrey household, including weddings, christenings, funerals, bake offs, and generally any other activity where a public show of family unity was deemed necessary by Marta to enforce the appearance of normalcy among her contemporaries that she cultivated. At home she took it all in stride, her husband’s laziness, her middle son walking around with his head in the clouds, her daughter sequestering herself in the attic, but come hell or high water, when it came time to parade them all out for the rest of Feral to see, they would be there, and in their Sunday finest, or she would know the reason why. If there were many disappointments in Marta’s life, she had grown adept at keeping them to herself, but she had never given up on a certain idea of what she wanted her family to be, and if she had any say in it at all, she would have that family when she felt she needed it, even if the illusion dissolved as soon as all of them were back in the house again with the door closed behind them.

  Much of what was most appealing about Feral was self-evident, even for those passing through who only got a brief glimpse of the town and its inhabitants. Crime was virtually nonexistent, the worst offenses being occasional underage drinking or shoplifting. Even a domestic disturbance was unusual. There hadn’t been a homicide in Feral for nearly a century, the last such instance being the shooting of an adulterous husband by a jealous wife, who had then turned the gun on herself. Sheriff Ephraim Brady was fond of remarking to his wife that he had the best job in the world, being well paid to nap away the afternoons at his desk, with free use of the squad car to boot. In short, Feral was a fine place to settle down and raise a family, a place where little had changed in a good long while and showed no signs of doing so any time soon. A place where life sauntered by, both slow and easy. Walt and Marta Surrey had grown up in town and never considered leaving in any serious way. Whether the same could be said for their children only time would tell.

  As idyllic as Feral was capable of being, in any event, these first few days of summer break there was very little about it to be enjoyed for Tad Surrey. Not when he was spending the unseasonably hot weather within the confines of the sweltering family garage, doing the cleaning that his mother had been demanding of his father since the beginning of spring some months before. Tad believed that his father had been secretly overjoyed by his middle child’s no-show at dinner a few nights before, and he was right. Since hard labor for a week had been Marta’s decree, Walt had wasted no time in starting Tad on the garage, a task so monumental that a week’s work was hardly likely to even make a dent in it. This way Walt could head off to Busey’s auto body shop every morning and leave his son to the shifting and organizing that he’d been dodging since his wife had first suggested the idea.

  The garage was literally packed to the rafters, as has been mentioned, the building itself a molding pile of Surrey family history. When Tad reached down to yank the door open that first morning, the new pale sun just having risen and the day not yet hot, his heart sank. His father, on his way to work, stopped by the open door to the pickup and grinned at the dismayed look on his son’s face. There were farm implements that hadn’t worked in years, relics from Percival’s time, now no more than rusted metallic frames sitting in pools of dried grease. There were vague shapes in the corners under discolored tarps and sacking, piles of ancient newspapers wrapped in twine, old holiday decorations that had been supplanted from the attic when Daisy had claimed it as her own, bales of rotting hay and all manner of other sundries, all covered in cobwebs, stacked on top of each other with no regard for order. The garage had two levels, with a heavy wooden ladder in its center leaning against the edge of the upper loft, where Tad knew space to be in equally short supply. He turned toward his father and stood looking at him reproachfully. “Well?” he said. “How do I go about doing this? What are we keeping? What’s being thrown away?” He turned back toward the barn, where dust motes disturbed by the opening of the door still chased each other in lazy eddies through the stillness. The building had a strong earthy smell that was uniquely its own, old hay and sweat and leather, pungent and thick and spicy. “How do I even start?” he said.

  Walt left the truck’s door standing open and walked over to stand by his son. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, looking back and forth from one side to the other. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you start by carryin’ everything down from the loft and pilin’ it down here. I’ll sort through it later when I get home and decide what’s worth keepin’. If it’s something that won’t be harmed by your tossin’ it over the edge, go head and do that. Don’t throw nothin’ away without my say so, y’hear?” He turned and walked back to the truck, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “That should be more than enough to keep you busy for today. Just keep at it till your mama tells you different.”

  “Yes sir.” Tad stood and watched as his father did a three point turn and the truck rattled down the drive and out of sight around the big bend, coughing up small puffs of sooty black exhaust fumes before it disappeared behind the trees. He could still hear it for some time after, jouncing along to where it would meet up with the Willow Road. He turned back to the garage, ran a hand through his hair and hitched up his pants. Then he walked over to the ladder and began climbing up to the loft. Today’s assignment: clean out the barracks. This is what happens when you fail in your mission, private. Let it be a lesson to you.

  By noon he was drenched in sweat as though he’d been swimming in it, his hair plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. He’d been wearing a pair of his oldest, most faded jeans, with huge holes at the knees and in the seat, and an old undershirt that had once been white but was now stained yellow at the armpits, along with a pair of heavy beige gardening gloves to protect himself from spiders or anything else that could bite or sting that might be hiding in the straw. By ten he’d thrown off the shirt and now he labored in only the jeans, sneakers, and gloves, pushing blocks of hay to the edge and heaving them off into space. That was the only satisfying part of the job, when he’d pried up one of the heavy bales and pushed it across the floor, sending up dust and stray wisps to lean into it with his shoulder and watch it fall with a swish and thump to the ground below, where it bounced and lay still among the others. Trying to descend the ladder carrying the bales was futility. The morning’s tedium was broken up only by Casey, who appeared at the open garage door, football in hand, to laugh at him. Walt snarled at him but dared say no more, knowing the risks of antagonizing his older brother. At noon his mother appeared and called a halt for lunch, and after he’d refreshed himself she sent him back out again, where he stayed, becoming hotter, filthier, and more irritated, until Walt Surrey’s truck reappeared and his father climbed out and told him to come in for dinner.

  “Looks good,” Walt said. Tad had thrown the last of the old bales from the loft to the ground below, and had been busy for the last hour stacking them in piles. “Tomorrow morning we’ll get up early and you can help me load these into the truck so I can haul them down to the dump. Then I’ll take a look at the rest of what’s in that loft and tell you what I want done with it.” Tad, who’d spent the better part of the past eight hours inhaling dust, didn’t have the energy to respond.

  Upstairs in the bathroom after dinner that night, Tad stripped off his work clothes and stepped into the shower with a grateful sigh. Here, under the falling water, was the proper location for another of his games, which he now found himself playing before he was even aware of it, simply as a matter of habit, as was the case with so many of the others. This was one of the earliest ones that he’d been playing for as far back as he could remember, since he was a very small child, and it was also one of the most simplistic. First he turned the faucet all the way to the left, so that the flow of the stream, pulsing steadily down from above, was just one degree away from scalding. As steam began to flood the bathroom, fogging the mirror, climbing toward the ceiling where it
hung heavy in the air, he sat carefully down on the shower floor. Then he lay down on his side, hugging his knees up close to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them to make himself into a compact ball. Lastly he tucked his head down and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as tightly as they would go. And then he lay there, like an insect in its cocoon, like a tiny seed inside its pod, and he thought about what it had been like being inside, in the time before time that he could never remember, no matter how far back he searched, when two bodies were one, and he received his nourishment through tubes, and everything was warmth and darkness and the rhythmic thumping of the inner world and the muffled noises of the outer world like far off thunder in a rainstorm on a summer night. And with the water so hot as to be nearly unbearable, raining down on him relentless, he squeezed his eyes tighter still and could see swirls of color, vivid sea-greens and royal purples and blues shooting past like tailed comets and colliding in radiant explosions that made him shiver despite the heat like an old dog that sleeping still dreams of the hunt. And there he lay, older now but not yet old, his face still smooth and childish in the proper light, enraptured as he was by the powers that he felt growing within him in this, the summer In Between. And so content was he that a half an hour had passed before he was even aware, and he was awoken only by his mother pounding on the door and asking him in God’s name wasn’t he clean yet.

  So it went for the first three days of the summer break. Tad woke at the same time his father did, ate the obligatory breakfast with the family as dictated by the Governing Principles, and was given instruction for the ongoing cleaning process. For most of the daylight hours he toiled in the garage while Walt Surrey was away at Busey’s auto body. His mother was somewhere inside, cooking, cleaning, and the hundred and one other tasks that on any given day were required to keep the household from falling apart. Casey left the house at midmorning, football in hand, most likely to meet up with other members of the Feral High goon squad in some adjoining field where they could scrimmage to their hearts content, winning countless Superbowls against the odds in the final seconds. Daisy remained in the attic, coming down only for meals, much the same as during the school year. It was highly unlikely she would leave the house at all for the entire length of the summer, unless her mother forced her to.

  The fourth day started much the same as the third, with two exceptions. Over breakfast, Marta turned to her middle son and said, “Well Tad, your father and I discussed it, and we feel that an entire week working in the garage is a bit excessive. Isn’t that right, Walter?”

  “Mm,” his father said, not taking his eyes from the newspaper.

  “So today will be the last day of your punishment. Your father will tell you what he wants done, and tonight you’re officially off the hook.”

  “Thanks,” Tad said. The phone rang, and Walt stood up and walked into the living room to answer it.

  “Well I think it’s bullshit,” Casey said sourly. His mother shot him a warning look. “Sorry Ma. I just don’t know what kind of a lesson it teaches him when you say a week and then you let him off early like that. It’s like Coach always says, when you’ve committed to something you have an obligation to see it through to the end.”

  Walt’s voice drifted in from the living room, sounding annoyed. “Hello. Hello!”

  “Thank you for the input, dear,” Marta said. “But it’s my decision and your fathers, not yours or Coaches’. Who was it?” she asked, as Walt reappeared.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Somebody foolin’ around. Maybe it’s a bad connection, but I could swear I heard breathin’ on the other end.”

  “I swear,” Marta said. “Some people just don’t have anything better to do than waste time messing around on people’s phones.” She turned to the children again. “I’m going into town with your father today. I’ll be playing bridge with Ethel Slesher. Daisy, why don’t you do something today?”

  “Like what?” Daisy said, looking up defiantly from her Cheerios.

  “How about going outside and getting a little fresh air and exercise? It’s going to be beautiful out.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” Marta said, getting up and beginning to clear the dishes away. “I’m just letting you know right now, young lady, I don’t want you spending your whole summer up there in the attic. Do you hear me?” Daisy mumbled something. “What was that?”

  “I said, yes ma’am.”

  “Good. Now your father and I will be back in time for dinner. Tad, make sure and stay hydrated out there. It’s going to be a hot one today.” An hour later, with both his parents gone, Tad found himself in the garage again, already sweating from exertion though it was barely past ten. He consoled himself with the knowledge that today marked the end of his indentured service, and he eagerly awaited the coming of nightfall. Today he’d been assigned to sort through a corner of the garage devoted mainly to the storing of old toys and games, some of which he recognized from his own childhood, while others, from their appearance, must have dated back to the time of his father. Most of these were in such disrepair that they would never have a practical use again, and he was in the act of throwing them carelessly into a heavy duty black garbage bag, when suddenly, like an electric shock, he felt it again. The switch had been thrown, or the knob turned, and before he knew what was happening he’d dropped the bag and walked hurriedly out to stand on the driveway, looking fixedly toward his right off into the woods, where something called to him. It was all he could do not to run headlong off into the trees after its source. It’s your imagination. It’s not real. But when you’re standing in the middle of an intersection and a truck is barreling down at you, blasting its horn, it’s all well and good to say it isn’t real. That won’t lessen the impact when you’re flattened like a gnat against the windshield. Tad stood there, trembling, like a dog hearing the whistle of its master, while the sun beat down on his head and shoulders. He must go, he had to go, because…because it’s him, isn’t it? Could that be right? Could it possibly be true? All right, let’s look at this logically for a second. If I just take a quick walk, and I’m back in time for dinner and to finish sorting through the rest of this crap, who’s to know? Ma and Pa are gone, and Casey’s not around to rat me out. He hesitated a moment longer, rubbing the palms of his hands together. Then he turned and walked up the front steps, across the porch, and into the house.

  He walked through the living room and dining room into the kitchen. Everything was quiet and still. Daisy doubtless up in the attic. He stumped down the stairs into the basement, flipping on the light switch on the wall as he went. The basement smelled of loam and earth, and faintly of his mother’s preserves, which sat in neat rows of glass jars on lines of wooden shelving to his right. Against the back wall was his father’s work bench, with tools hanging on pegs above it, while below were piled various sporting goods- a catcher’s mitt, a soccer ball and a pair of baseball bats, one wood and one aluminum, and two tackle boxes, a net, fishing poles and similar equipment. Digging through the pile he discovered what he’d been searching for. It was a pair of heavy rubber boots of the kind used for fly fishing, khaki in color, the bottoms caked with dried mud from the last time they’d been used. No mud on my pants this time. No evidence. First rule of warfare is come prepared for the terrain. He carried the boots upstairs and left them on the front porch, then he dashed upstairs to his room and opened the top drawer of his dresser. After rooting through his socks he lifted out a tarnished silver pocket watch on a chain. This he attached to his belt and slipped the watch into his pocket. The watch was a relic that had once belonged to Tad’s grandfather; by rights Casey laid claim to it as the eldest, but he’d never had any use for it. Tad, more of a romantic, liked owning it because it was a link to past generations he’d never had the opportunity to meet- his grandfather had died before he was born. Then he closed the door to his room, hopped down the stairs and back out to the porch, where he removed his
shoes and sat pulling the boots on. He walked down the steps and around the house, where he slipped his sneakers under the porch. Thus prepared, he walked back out to the drive and stood for a second looking toward where he guessed the strange beacon was coming from. Then, very quickly, nearly jogging, he began to move in its direction.