We Went to the Woods

by Caite Dolan-Leach

  “Jesse, my man,” he said by way of greeting, pulling Jesse in for a surprisingly tender hug.

  “Welcome, dude. So good to see you.”

  “Fuck, it’s good to get out of the car,” Matthew said, stretching his arms over his head. His button-down shirt lifted up to reveal a flat belly with a narrow line of hair that disappeared into his jeans.

  “Hi,” he said, turning to me. “I’m Matthew. You a new member?”

  “We’re neighbors, actually,” I said. “We were just stopping by.”

  “And, Beau, hey,” Matthew said, turning to address him. I was surprised. They knew each other? “We’re neighbors now? No way. Where are you guys located these days?”

  “About two miles north, northeast of here. Just this side of Mecklenburg. We’re starting up our own little farm. A miniature collective,” Beau said. I couldn’t read his tone.

  “Nice! And nice to meet you.” Matthew turned back to me, a dazzling smile on his face. I couldn’t stop looking at his eyes. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Mack,” I said, regretting this statement’s lack of thrill value. I wanted to dazzle, but such was not my lot.

  “You guys will stay a bit, right? I’d love to hear about what you’re doing over there. And catch up,” he added, with a nod to Beau. There was something dismissive in his treatment of Beau that I couldn’t parse. Naturally, I was desperately curious.

  “We’d love to stick around,” I answered quickly, worried that Beau would make an excuse that would force me to leave. I heard the screen door open behind me, followed by a girlish yelp. Fennel flew past me and practically into Matthew’s arms.

  “Ay, it’s good to see you,” Matthew said into her dreadlocks, giving her a tight squeeze. I’d never seen Fennel so buoyant.

  “It’s been way too long,” I heard Fennel admonish him, not relinquishing her grip.

  “Totally agree. California is way too fucking far.”

  Fennel finally released Matthew and stood back to observe him. “You just drove all the way here?” she asked, preparing to censure him.

  “Well, you know, I obviously had to stop for gas,” Matthew said with a mischievous smile.

  “Did you even get a proper night’s sleep while you were on the road?”

  “I pulled over a few places. Got my little tent.” His smile broke further, as though he knew that this would frustrate Fennel.

  “Matthew, you are going to get yourself killed. Seriously.” But for once, Fennel couldn’t seem to maintain her disapproval.

  “Well, I did stop to visit some of our friends in Ohio.”

  “Oh my God! How are they? Did she have the baby? You have to tell me everything!”

  “I will, I will. But first, let me come inside,” he said.

  Fennel blushed. “Silly me, come in. Dinner is on the stove. Do you have bags?” She fussed over him, seeming to fly off in all directions to see him comfortable. A canvas bag was fetched from the Prius, stew was stirred, Matthew was installed in the small room that had once been his. I hovered, Beau and I onlookers, outsiders to this little drama. We lurked until everyone had settled around the table and broken off hunks of Fennel’s heavy, dark bread, dipping them into jars of pesto and licking their fingers with gusto.

  “They can’t be allowed to develop further here, that’s all I’m saying,” Fennel declared, clearly picking up a conversation she had begun with Matthew upstairs.

  “I agree. We always considered Lakeview to be our primary target,” Matthew said.

  “I mean, they want to keep expanding in the area and to turn it into a hub for fracking and gas transportation. If they get their way, the whole lake could end up contaminated, and we’ll wind up like Flint, with no drinking water.”

  “We’re all on board, Fen. I know you guys have been getting stuff done out here. I’ve been working with the California group, and there’s some consensus—they know that Lakeview is essential. Financing is the tricky bit—you know I don’t agree with the methods—”

  “I’m not happy about it, either,” Fennel interrupted. “But we’re not exactly going to sell enough cucumbers to pay for it. It’s a question of which principles you’re willing to compromise on for the greater good.”

  “Which is a larger question,” Matthew acknowledged, digging a hunk of bread into a bowl of pesto and smacking olive oil from his lips. “And one with plenty of gray areas. As we know.” He glanced over at Fennel, and they communicated something to each other using only their eyes. I thought I could see a flash of warning in Matthew’s expression. What were they talking about? And what, for that matter, did California have to do with a natural gas company in upstate New York?

  “But we don’t want to leap straight into all of that,” he added. “I’ve got plenty of time. We’ll make a plan for a direct action with Lakeview that we can all live with.”

  “Beau’s been pretty indispensable,” Fennel said, apropos of what I wasn’t sure. Everyone was momentarily quiet.

  “It’s always good to have…fresh blood,” Matthew said. “And you, Mack? What’s your story?”

  “Mack’s not really—” Fennel began.

  “I’ve been to one of the protests,” I said defensively. “I hate what they’re trying to do. My dad worked for the power plant on Cayuga, and they fired him when he got sick. I hate those people. That industry.”

  “I didn’t know that, Mack,” Beau said.

  “Well, he doesn’t like to talk about it that much. Now he does maintenance for the county. He’s not exactly proud of it.”

  “Well, we’re happy to have you on our side,” said Matthew, once again exchanging that mystifying wordless communiqué with Fennel. “But right now, I want to know: Who made this amazing pesto?”

  “That was me,” Natasha said. She had been watching our conversation silently and seemed strangely relieved to change the topic over to food.

  “It’s wonderful. Garlicky,” Matthew said, mouth full and beaming. He dipped his bread for another bite and the oil nearly dribbled onto his shirt; just in time, he deftly positioned his mouth beneath the green bounty so that it spilled onto his outstretched tongue. “I could eat it with a spoon.”

  “Summer in a jar,” Natasha agreed.

  “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

  “We should really head out,” Beau said before Fennel could describe her bland stew. I was disappointed; I wanted to know more about this Matthew. “Louisa’s expecting these.” He pushed back his chair and held up the mushrooms we had come for.

  “Give her my regards,” Matthew said, standing up, too, and holding Beau’s eyes with his own while he held his forearm in a farewell shake.

  “If it’s all the same, I might not mention that you’re here,” Beau said. And he turned to leave without another word.

  “Bye, guys,” I said with an awkward wave, and hustled to follow him.

  We found ourselves back in the truck and starting for home, me full of regret and wishing yet again that I had managed to impose my will on a plan.

  “What was that about?” I asked, turning the ignition.

  “Nothing. Louisa and Matthew don’t really get along.”

  “Is that why she doesn’t like Fennel, either?”

  Beau glanced over at me, and with a knowing smile that held so much awareness of all my speculation, he said: “Well, that’s part of it.”

  We were about to pull out of the driveway when Matthew bounded down the front steps and jogged to the truck. Beau rolled down his window.

  “Listen, Beau,” he said. “Let’s maybe bury the hatchet. Why don’t you guys stay for a criticism?”

  Beau glanced over at me.

  “A what?” I said.

  “A criticism,” Matthew said. “Beau knows all about them. Care to explain?”

  Beau si
ghed before turning to me. “They’re sessions where everyone gets to talk a bit about their feelings. If you feel like the work isn’t being shared, or if someone’s been doing something that gets under your skin. You sit in a room and, you know…bitch.”

  “It’s supposed to keep interpersonal stuff from festering,” Matthew explained. “Put everything out there. Align everyone’s intentions.”

  Of course I wanted to stay. I’d read about similar sessions in other intentional communities, but I’d never thought I’d get to see one myself. Better still, I could write about it.

  “I’d love to stay. If you think Louisa won’t mind—”

  “Oh, she will, no doubt,” Matthew said. His grin was not entirely kind. “C’mon. We like to do it before dinner, so everyone has a clear heart when we sit down to break bread together.”

  “Honestly, Matt”—I saw Matthew flinch at Beau’s abbreviation—“I think we might just skip it.”

  As I pulled out of the drive, I took my foot off the gas for a moment; I thought I could hear the sound of voices, singing together, eerily in tune.

  Chapter 18

  Tomatoes. When I closed my eyes, I saw a sea of red. I dug pulpy flesh from beneath my fingernails and wiped smears of crimson from my collar and cheekbones. Louisa looked like a Braveheart extra, with her bouncy red curls and swaths of ruby smeared across her face and forearms.

  It was mid-September, and harvest was officially nearing its end. A few things would persist until the first hard frost, but this was our last chance, the final push before the cold.

  A warm afternoon found us all (save Beau) gathered in the clearing, shucking corn and dicing tomatoes. Louisa wanted to try to make cornmeal, since we had already canned quite a lot of sweet corn, and we were all sick of fresh polenta, delicious though it was. After squabbling over tasks, we had settled into a happy quiet rhythm, broken only by Chloe’s voice as she sang strange old folk songs from the British Isles. These dark tunes were an odd contrast to the brilliant sunny day, but I found them soothing. Her voice, unlike her hands and body, was untrained, and I liked the soft warble of her high notes and the falters when her throat caught. When her voice broke off in the midst of a line, I looked up from the silky husks I was so focused on stripping.

  The same big truck Chloe and I had encountered earlier in the summer was in our driveway. I shot a quick look at Louisa, who appeared surprised but raring for a fight. I regretted her presence, even as I felt relieved that it would be her to confront them, rather than me. She already had her cellphone in her hand as she approached the pickup.

  The same driver, who I’d since learned was Larson himself, emerged from the cab, though this time he was accompanied by a younger man, a guy I thought I had maybe seen around Ithaca. I sidled closer to Chloe, who had gone white and looked as though she wanted to retreat to her cabin.

  “You don’t have to stick around for this,” I told her in a hushed tone.

  “No, Louisa needs me,” she answered, gamely trying to square her shoulders.

  “Well, hello, ma’am,” Larson purred. “I feel like I haven’t seen you out of court in some time.”

  I was startled to overhear this; I didn’t realize there had been any court hearings. I certainly hadn’t been invited to them.

  “Nice of you to drop by,” Louisa said. “Would you like to taste a tomato? I think you’d be impressed by how flavorful and nonsynthetic they taste when you grow them organically. From heirloom seeds.”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m partial to my wife’s tomatoes. She’s got a little patch in our front yard.”

  “I imagine you’re much more careful not to dump toxic chemicals on the food you eat. After all, who would want to eat chemical sludge?”

  “Actually, my wife uses pesticides on our garden patch, just like her great-grandmother did. Only you hippies have this newfangled notion that all chemicals are evil.”

  “Well, in that case, I expect our disagreement will be rather short-lived. Since you will be too.”

  Larson’s face darkened. “Is that a threat, miss?”

  “Just an observation on your health.” Louisa smirked. “I hope you’ve got health insurance. Though if your Republican cronies have their way, I imagine you might find yourself out of luck. When they’re done, they’ll be the only ones in the country with insurance.”

  “Listen, I didn’t come out here to talk politics with you,” Larson said.

  “I’m afraid these days everything seems to be political. Even, strangely enough, whether it should be legal to poison thousands of people, future generations, and destroy farmable land for the sake of one man’s profit. Late-stage capitalism’s a bitch.”

  “We’re just protecting our livelihood,” the younger man interjected. “This isn’t about—capitalism or, or communism or anything. We’re just trying to pay our mortgage.”

  “Your mortgage on your giant estate, safely situated fifty miles from here? I really do feel for you.”

  “My father worked hard for everything he has,” protested the young guy. “No one gave us a red cent—”

  “You mean no one other than the federal government that you feel so strongly should be eliminated? You’ve been accepting enormous subsidies from the feds for decades, and then you want to turn around and claim that it’s all been fucking elbow grease. Your hypocrisy is disgusting.” Louisa spat on the ground.

  “Very ladylike,” the young man sneered.

  “Yes, that would be the very worst insult you can think of. That I’m not behaving enough like a lady. Keep talking, you sexist pig. The judge on our case is a staunch feminist, and I think she’ll really be interested in how you came onto my property to launch chauvinist comments at me in a threatening way.”

  “Prove it, you psycho bitch—”

  “Josh, that’s enough,” Larson the elder interrupted. “We’re not here to argue, or to insult each other.” He gave both Louisa and Josh a censorious look that I could only describe as paternal. “I came to discuss a settlement, as neighbors. This case is costing us both money, not to mention time and energy traveling to the court. It’s in both our interests to come to an agreement.”

  “Then why aren’t our lawyers here?”

  “Like I said, I wanted to talk. As neighbors.”

  Louisa scowled at him.

  “There’s also something I think you should see,” Larson continued, “and I thought you might appreciate it if we talked about it out of court.”

  Louisa paused. “Well, look, I’d invite you in, but as you can see, we’re in the middle of harvest. I would’ve thought you’d be too,” she couldn’t help adding.

  “We’re on our lunch break,” Larson said. He moved a little farther from his truck, and though Louisa looked hostile, she didn’t object. I saw that under his arm he carried an envelope.

  “It might surprise you to know,” he said, “that we recently had a little incident at our cow barn. We went to milk the cows one morning only to discover that most of them had somehow gotten loose.”

  “Well, I imagine pasture-fed cows might be a nice change of pace for your usual consumers.”

  “The thing about cows, though, is they’re not all that smart. And there were a number of calves in the herd. Unfortunately, they wandered off and got themselves in some trouble. When we couldn’t find them, several of the babies were torn to pieces by coyotes.” With a studied expression, he pulled what looked like a handful of photos from the envelope he carried and flipped through them thoughtfully. He passed a photo to Louisa. “Not a pretty sight, as you can see. A real shame.”

  Louisa looked uneasy, and handed him the photo back after a cursory glance.

  “I guess you should mend your fences,” she said. Her spunkiness seemed to have been deflated, though. “No pun,” she added.

  “See, that’s the thing. It wasn’t just
one fence that failed. It musta been three, for these cows to get where they ended up. And cows, like I said, aren’t that bright. They’re creatures of habit. They tend to stick pretty close to their usual stomping grounds. No pun there, either.”

  “Maybe you have adventurous animals,” Louisa said uneasily.

  “I thought maybe so too. But then we figured we’d double-check the cameras, you know. See if anything maybe spooked them, in the night. A dog that got loose, maybe.” Larson glanced casually over at Argos, and I resisted the urge to go stand in front of him.

  “Wouldn’t think you’d have security cameras to film cows,” Louisa said.

  “No, you wouldn’t, right?” Larson smiled. “But we’ve had some security issues the last few months. As you know. And we had an attempted break-in at the dairy barns earlier in the summer, so we thought it might be a good investment. Just in case.”

  Though I could see only part of Louisa’s face in profile, I caught the stiffening of her shoulders, and I knew that whatever was coming next wasn’t good.

  “And wouldn’t you know it? It wasn’t a dog spooked them cows and got them out. It was some kids. Maybe pranksters—what do you think?” Again with an exaggerated show of casualness, Larson pulled two more photos from his envelope.

  “You recognize any of these kids? Maybe some of the ones you run around with?”

  Louisa looked at each photo for a second or two before handing them back. “No, they don’t look familiar. The quality of those photos isn’t very good, though. I’d think you’d have a hard time proving an identity. You know, definitively. In court.”

  Though I couldn’t see the smile she flashed at Larson, I knew exactly what her face looked like.

  “Probably just some ‘punks’ on a dare,” Louisa said. “Those darned kids, you know. Still, best of luck finding them. Wouldn’t want any more baby cows to die unnecessarily. But then, what do you do with male calves again? They get slaughtered for veal, right?”