“But then, you’re very retro at the moment, I suppose. Living in a commune, like in the seventies! Do you remember, Jackie, my friend who lived at EcoVillage? Of course that’s still going, but the commune lifestyle was very much in vogue when we were young too. What do you think of it, Andy?” she asked, addressing my father.
“I guess Mackenzie’s old enough to be making decisions for herself. Not exactly the best climate for a dropout these days,” he said.
“No, and I can’t imagine that after that TV show—well, never mind. I’m sure it’s very admirable, what you’re doing out there. I can’t imagine you have an easy time of it! Good for you, Mackenzie.”
It seemed obvious that she meant the opposite, but there was no point rising to the bait. I poked at my food and hoped to go unnoticed for the rest of dinner.
Marie wasn’t much of a natural cook, but she put an awful lot of effort into family meals, so that the food wasn’t so much tasty as overworked; this made it impossible to criticize. This year we all had our own individual Cornish game hens and an exotic display of the sorts of vegetables that did not typically grace the table at either my parents’ home or the Homestead. Notwithstanding my mother’s cream- and margarine-based cuisine, this was one of the richest meals I’d had in a while, and with the expensive zinfandel that circled around the table, I soon felt queasy and remorseful. Marie continued to pass various gratins and her salad of star fruit, mint, and feta back towards me, commenting that I seemed “very thin, don’t you think, Jackie? All that healthy vegetarian living out in the woods, I bet you.” I didn’t bother to correct her but sullenly poked down as much food as I thought was polite. I resisted the urge to point out that not a single item on the table was locally in season. I wondered if this was how Fennel felt all the time.
By the time we reached dessert, my mother was grumpy, my father completely silent, and Maurice visibly drunk. Only Marie seemed in high spirits, and she regaled us with Portia’s recent spiritual conquests even as we all pushed a soggy tiramisu around our plates. My father stood up as she was in midsentence.
“Going to make some coffee for the ride home,” he announced, without asking permission.
“Andy, you should have said! Of course I don’t typically drink coffee—it’s not really very good for you—but I should have thought to offer. Maurice, dear, do you think you could help Andy in the kitchen?”
The two men gruffly excused themselves, both looking pleased to have escaped the table. I sat, trapped between my mother and aunt as they traded barbs over the ridiculous pursuits of their children.
“I happen to think that what Mackenzie is doing is actually quite something,” I was surprised to hear my mother say as I concentrated on my roiling belly. “It takes real conviction to live the way she’s been doing.”
“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Marie answered. “But, I mean, surely it would be better for the world if she—if you maybe got a job, Mackenzie?” I shrugged in response.
“Well, I for one,” my mother replied, “think it’s unrealistic to expect every one of these, these young kids to find the sorts of jobs we’ve been lucky to have, you know. It’s just not the same now. I think it’s very brave to try something…alternative,” she added, reaching for words that were uncomfortable for her.
“Yes, well, Mackenzie didn’t really have that many options, did she? After what happened in New York.”
My mother and I dropped our chins in near-identical gestures, cheeks darkening.
“Starting over is hard, too, Marie. As you know well, since your first marriage.” This was unusually sharp for my mother, and I could see my aunt raise an eyebrow at her unexpected parry. I was absurdly pleased at Mom’s attempts to defend me.
The men returned from the kitchen holding mugs of coffee. Maurice poured himself a large glass of port before sitting back in his chair at the head of the table, but my father remained standing, indicating that he intended to leave forthwith. I slipped into the kitchen and helped myself to a cup of coffee, and my father and I lurked conspicuously until Marie was forced to stop holding forth. Soon we left my aunt’s house, breathing a sigh of relief at the crisp air outside. Back home, I folded myself into the twin bed in which I had spent my childhood nights, overwhelmed by unease and indigestion.
I’ve since wondered if I was looking for an out, that season; was my return home an attempt to reenter the world, to see if I could withstand it? If it was, I got a definitive answer. The week I spent with my family left me feeling sick and miserable. Just the sight of my brother filled me with rage, and when we encountered each other in the kitchen (he drinking bottle after bottle of off-brand cola, me poking around the fridge, increasingly hankering for something homegrown, nutritious) we invariably degenerated into churlish middle schoolers, bickering aimlessly but with a lot of heat. When he finally left, he lorded his sense of purpose over me, repeating his plans to graduate and get a job again and again, relishing my father’s occasional grunts of approval. I wanted my woodstove, my project, my people, my braids of garlic, my cup of bone broth, my kombucha scoby, my dog, my dim gas lamp.
It would make more sense if something had happened: If my father had finally snapped, tossed me out in frustration at my refusal “to grow up.” If my mother had said something cruel, something I couldn’t forget. If I had been poisoned by the baloney sandwich I inadvisably ate, standing in front of the open fridge at two A.M., a portrait of insomniac modernity. But I was simply bored, anxious, beleaguered by dozens of tiny small things that made this world feel uninhabitable now. Now that I knew it could be different.
If I had been testing myself, to see if I could return to this life, I had failed. So I went back to the Homestead, to see how that would play out.
Chapter 22
My return was hopeful and excited, much as my departure had been. That week with my family had reminded me of the suburban desperation I so longed to escape and had thrown the dramas of the Homestead into pleasant relief. Leaving Lansing reassured me, made me feel as though I was once again on the right path. I played the tape deck in my ancient truck loudly and cracked the windows so that I could sniff the mud and snow and even the faintest hints of grass as I drove down the hill, then through Ithaca, then over West Hill and towards the Homestead. I took a detour so that I could cruise by the Collective on my way, slowing down as much as I could without risking becoming trapped in the slush and ice; I could see hardly anything from the dirt road, and though I was tempted to go knock on the door, our last visit had made me feel somewhat unwelcome. Instead, I continued on, heading for that familiar plot of land.
I expected to see someone in the clearing when I pulled up—Argos, at the very least—but the whole place was eerily quiet. At first glance, the cabins seemed to be empty, and I noticed that the tree we had felled and dragged back towards the woodshed with the tractor still sat there, uncut, unsplit, unstacked. Even though I knew Jack was the most diligent about the firewood, I thought that Beau and Louisa would at least have attempted to make a start on it, since there was so little to do in the gardens this time of year.
After parking the truck, I poked my head into the main cabin, which was frigid and smelled stale; I noticed that a batch of sauerkraut had been left uncovered on the counter, and a thick film of scuzz had accumulated on the surface. I thought about skimming off the frothy skin and submerging the cabbage beneath the plate and jar of water that should have been protecting it all along, but Louisa would murder me if I interfered with one of her in-progress ferments. I placed my hand on the stovetop, which was stone cold—there hadn’t been a fire here for at least twelve hours, probably longer. There was no smoke coming from Beau’s, Chloe’s, or Jack’s chimneys, either.
This left only Louisa, who was in her cabin, wearing a large sweatshirt, thick socks, and nothing else. Her stove was pumping out BTUs, and she looked flushed and sleepy, as though she had rece
ntly been napping. Her head was nestled on a book.
“Thought I heard you pull in,” she said, rasping. “I would’ve come out to say hi, but I’ve got this miserable flu. Don’t come too close,” she warned. I perched on her small table.
“Where is everyone?”
“Jack is still with his family. Chloe is in the hospital, and Beau is doing whatever he sees fit.”
“The hospital? What the hell happened?”
“I think she’s got what I have, just maybe a little worse,” Louisa said, burying her nose in her blanket for a massive sneeze. “You know she hasn’t exactly been chipper the last little while. I think her immune system is depressed too.”
“I wish you’d told me,” I said, sulking. “I could have gone to visit her.”
“I thought Beau texted you.” Louisa shrugged. “She said she doesn’t really want to see anyone anyway. She should be home within a day or two.”
“Don’t you think you should maybe go to the doctor?” I asked, scrutinizing her. “You don’t look entirely shipshape yourself.”
“I’m fine. I never get sick. I’ll be back on my feet any second. I’m drinking fluids and sleeping lots, which is all the doctors would have me do anyhow.”
“Still, you’ve been out here all on your own? What if you’d gotten worse?”
“Honestly, Mack, you sometimes act like a maiden aunt from the eighteenth century. It’s just the flu. Rudy’s checked in on me a few times, and I’m perfectly comfortable. I’ve been drinking gallons of hot honey water.” She gestured to the copper kettle that sat on her stovetop, which was steaming lightly. “Would you make me another cup, actually?”
I busied myself with her mug, drizzling honey into the slightly cloudy water, then handed it to her.
She thanked me, adding, “It would be better with lemon, obviously, but I think it’ll be a few decades yet before we’re able to grow lemons in our orchard. Global warming will get us there, though, never fear.”
“How’s it been, otherwise, this last week?” I asked.
“Quiet, really. We spent some time with the lovely Fennel, who deigned to let us in the front door earlier this week. Other than that, not much. Chloe and I got sick, Beau had to borrow a car, and I’ve been quarantined. Nothing to report, General.” She gave me a lazy salute.
“You really should have called me,” I said again, hurt. “I wasn’t that far away. I would’ve come in a second if I’d known.”
“It was clear you needed a little break,” Louisa said as airily as she could with her croaky throat. “I wanted you to have some time with your family. The winter can get long and weird. How was your lovely bourgeois home?” she asked. I had underplayed my blue-collar background, and because I had been to NYU, Louisa was under the impression that I was fancier than I actually was, an impression I was in no hurry to correct.
“Full of questions they didn’t really know how to ask. Polite. Unsure. I think my brother is turning into a conservative.”
Louisa laughed. “A youthful blunder, let’s hope. But your salt-of-the-earth parents? Still drudging along?”
I was a little offended by this characterization of their working-class grind, which Louisa believed involved more desks than manual labor, but I supposed it wasn’t inaccurate. “They’re fine. The big development in my dad’s life is his new snowblower, which he likes more than either of his kids. My mom spent three days on the Atkins diet and has pronounced it—I think the word she used was ‘codswallop.’ ”
Louisa smiled. “Yes, please, bring me tales of the great outside world. I’ve had nothing but my own busy, frothing head to entertain me, and I’d love to hear what the real people are doing out there.” She waved in the direction of the driveway. “Really, I am glad that you’re back,” she said with a quirk of her mouth, reaching out to give my hand a brief but forceful squeeze.
* * *
—
We expected Beau later that evening, but he didn’t show, and while Louisa tried to be flippant, I could see that she was both irritated and worried. I was myself concerned about Argos’s absence—normally, I would have already had ample opportunity to stroke his wiggling rump and fend off kisses (Argos booping my face with his wet snout), but though I’d called for him several times, he was nowhere to be found. Louisa admitted that she hadn’t seen him for at least two days, and I fretted, despite knowing he was more than capable of fending for himself, even in the chilly late-December weather. I made a couple of hot toddies, and Louisa and I sat on her bed, talking until her bleary eyes closed. When I moved to creep back to my own cabin, she caught my hand, and I slept, perhaps inadvisably, against her feverish back, sinking into the warm flush of whiskey and wood fire.
* * *
—
Our three comrades all arrived together a day later, on New Year’s Eve. Beau drove a borrowed car that I thought might be Jesse’s ragged Honda Civic. He’d picked Jack up from the tiny regional airport and Chloe from the medical center. Everyone seemed in high spirits, even Chloe, and I was pleased to think that the celebration Louisa and I had planned for the New Year’s festivities would be enjoyed by all. While we had hoped for a wild turkey, I’d been unsuccessful in snaring or shooting one. Louisa had stashed some venison steaks from Jack’s earlier exploit in Rudy’s freezer, and she was going to make a big pot of cacciatore, though she lamented the lack of olives. I convinced her to substitute some dried mushrooms, and she had the dish on the stove, beginning to bubble, when everyone pulled into the drive.
I was strangely relieved to see them all; a part of me had been thinking that maybe they just wouldn’t return, that our little dalliance here in the woods had simply come to an end. It seemed inevitable. But here they were, Jack regaling us with a humorous diatribe on unchecked airline corporations, cheeks bright from the cold outside. Chloe complained energetically about the lighting, food, and routine at the hospital. I was happy to see that she looked perfectly healthy, if still on the thin side. Beau loafed on a stool, watching our little group with a distant smile. Once, he stood behind me as I kneaded some dough for a loaf of bread and rested his hand on my hip as his lips grazed the short hair at the back of my head. In my distraction after this contact, I pulled too many rosemary leaves from their stems and absently kneaded all of it into the bread dough, instead of adding it to the stew. I pretended this was fully intentional.
That evening, everything briefly seemed as it had been; we avoided talking of the lawsuit or even mentioning the Collective. Jack was full of tales of his boisterous clan. I transformed my brother into a comical lout for the amusement of my friends. We ate the venison cacciatore. We drank wine. Chloe fetched her ukulele and played us anything we requested, making up lyrics when she didn’t know the song. Jack crooned along, tipsy, in his confident but off-key warble. Louisa sat in Beau’s lap, and they exchanged no recriminations or taut silences. All of the tension of the last few weeks and months seemed to have dissipated. When we all said good night, I didn’t feel the need to monitor who went to which bed; I followed Jack to his, without a glance backward.
We fumbled in the dark, unbuttoning clothes and giggling uncertainly. Several times our lips found each other’s, and his latched onto my clavicle at one point, a sensation that was both erotic and ticklish. We raked our hands through each other’s short hair, and our similarly bony hips met, a startling collision of our skeletons, separated by two sheaths of skin. When we finally stumbled up onto his bed, more or less naked, we were both sleepy and delirious, and instead of letting this classical dance escalate the way we both expected it to, we were surprised to find ourselves content to snuggle deeper into the down blanket and fall asleep, limbs cozily entangled.
* * *
—
As light seeped across the sill, I stirred against Jack, who was a sturdy sleeper. He didn’t wake up when I straddled him to dismount the bed, a posture that wa
s crudely imitative of the act we had failed to consummate the night before. He rolled over as I tugged on my jeans and flannel shirt. My boots were warm, nestled close to the dying fire, and I put a log into his stove before I headed outside, zipping my parka tight across my chest.
I walked a few feet across the clearing before allowing my eyes to focus on the scene before me, too wrong to fully take in. Stopping in my tracks, I was unable to breathe as I observed the animal that lay stretched out near the picnic table. I dragged my feet until I stood a few feet from the creature, then dropped to my knees in front of Argos. His head was tilted at a troubling angle and one of his front legs was bent in an unnatural position, although neither appeared to be broken; he was strangely floppy. He looked dead, though when I leaned in to check his breathing, he mewled. The relief and fear in that one sound broke me in half: I desperately wanted him to live, but his suffering hurt me somewhere I’d never been aware of.
“Hey, buddy. Hey, I’m here,” I murmured. I stroked his sweet head and he whined again—I didn’t know exactly where he was injured, so I withdrew my hand, feeling horribly impotent.
“Louisa!” I called. “Please! Wake up!” I waited, tense and frightened, until she appeared from her door a moment later, tugging a robe around her body. Beau wasn’t far behind her.
“Here! Over here!” I called. “Hey, sweet guy, hey there. We’re going to help you. I got you, sweet pup.” My breath hitched—I had no idea whether we could help, whether he was beyond helping, but I wanted only to reassure my dog, to let him know that I was here, that I would do what I could.
“Oh God, is that Argos?” Louisa crouched down next to me, her pajamas muddied by the cold dirt. “Ah, fuck. Hi, big guy.” She, too, tried to stroke him, as delicately as she could, and though Argos whined, his tail thumped the ground. I had begun to cry, choked tears spilling across my cheeks. Beau stood, surveying the scene.
We Went to the Woods Page 27
