Beneath the Trees

by Laurel Saville

  The shop was shoe-horned into the lowest level of a brick row house. The windows were half below grade, and there were a few small chairs and tables padlocked to a black iron fence that ran along the sidewalk. She took a few steps down, past the corkboard layered with band posters, “For Rent” flyers, and event announcements, dodged the listing pile of alternative weekly newspapers, and stepped to the counter. The floor of the place was made of bright squares of colored laminate. Small acrylic paintings, in a style she thought of as so self-consciously abstract it must be the work of undergraduates at the nearby art school, hung on the walls. She was relieved to see no other people sitting in any of the mismatched chairs at the half dozen small, tile-topped tables. She and the person working there, a man about her age, with a scruff of facial hair, discs in his ears, and a few tattoos clawing their way up his neck, stared at each other for a moment. She realized with a sense of confused embarrassment that she was waiting for him to ask for her order, and he was waiting for her to just give it to him. She was accustomed to getting her coffee by pumping it from a thermos at the same place she pumped her gas. She asked for a medium latte.

  “Grande,” he said, annoyed.

  Seriously, she thought, he’s correcting my coffee order?

  He punched a few buttons on the cash register.

  “Anything else?” he asked, avoiding eye contact.

  “And, um, one of those,” she said, pointing at a black, moist piece of cake looking lonely and bereft in the mostly empty bakery case.

  He gave her the total. She asked him to repeat it. It normally didn’t take more than a palmful of coins gathered from the tray in between the seats of her truck for a cup of coffee back home. She paid and dropped some coins into the counter jar that said, “If you fear change, leave it here.” Then she stood there.

  “I’ll bring it to you,” the barista said, annoyed, as he spun on his heel and started futzing with the espresso machine.

  God, Colden thought as she moved away from the counter, pulled out a chair, and shrugged off her coat. Why is this all so awkward?

  But in fact, she knew why it was awkward. She knew she had not come completely out of the woods. Literally and figuratively. When she was in the mountains, she regularly went days at a time speaking no more than a few sentences. Sometimes less than that, for longer than that. Unused, unnecessary, her social skills would atrophy and wither away. It had happened before. It happened regularly. Yet, it always surprised her. She didn’t miss the parts of herself that knew how to banter and chitchat with strangers and colleagues, but others clearly did.

  Colden opened the pages of the tabloid newspaper someone had left on the table. More band advertising. She wondered if she should try to see something while she was in town. But it was impossible to tell what kind of music any of them played. Their attitude seemed to be, “If you are not cool enough to know who we are, don’t bother coming to our show.” When was the last time she’d seen live music? The fiddle players in the farmer’s market didn’t count. She tried to conjure an image of herself standing in a darkened venue in front of a real band. Must have been in college. Five or six years ago. She couldn’t recall the group’s name now. They’d briefly been almost a big deal but had flamed out. She remembered the feel of the large, plastic cup in her hand, the flat, room-temperature beer on her tongue, and the sticky, slippery floor beneath her feet. The dry, raspy sensation in her throat from hollering over the noise of the music into the warm, moist ear of the guy who brought her.

  Even back then, she had preferred silence. And now? Now she wouldn’t last ten minutes at a loud concert. The sounds would overwhelm her.

  She reached the last pages of the newspaper. Personals. She was surprised to find they still did personals this way, in the paper, with box office numbers. She read through a few. They all sounded the same. As did the ads for online sex talk and men’s clubs that appeared on the same spread. In college, her friends had told hair-raising and funny stories of online dates gone bad. A few had worked out. She knew of one woman already married to and pregnant by a guy she’d met online. Yet recently, there’d been a news story of a woman, a mother of three, found cut into pieces in a recycling bin after having had a date with a guy she met online. He seemed so nice, her friends said. She was so careful, they insisted. Turns out, the guy had a long rap sheet and an ex-girlfriend full of regret that she hadn’t filed charges when he’d choked her. The murdered woman left behind three daughters. The murderer claimed he’d had an alcohol blackout and didn’t remember a thing.

  The world is full of dangers, Colden thought. Most people down here in this city would be terrified up in the mountains of my native habitat. Yet here, I’m the awkward, out-of-place, nervous creature.

  Scared. She didn’t think that word. But it hovered on the edges of her consciousness when she was in the city.

  Hands covered in tattoos and chunky silver jewelry set a large mug of foamy coffee and a small plate with a slab of cake in front of her. Colden folded the paper, set it aside, and sipped her drink. From her semi-subterranean perch, she could look out the windows but see only the feet and lower legs of people going by on the sidewalk. Wing tips and high heels. Canvas sneakers and sandals. Pointed toes and platforms. Sweatpants and saggy jeans with unlaced high-top court shoes. Stockinged legs beneath pencil skirts and pinstripes with a peek of argyle at the ankles. This was a city of lobbyists and lawyers, students and yuppies, hipsters and ghetto kids. She saw no canvas pants and water-stained or mud-caked boots.

  She took a bite of the cake. The sweetness exploded on her tongue and made her teeth ache. She washed it down with coffee so bitter and strong it bordered on acrid, even with the softening effect of the milk. She wiped her mouth. She didn’t think she could finish either. It was all just too much, too dense, too rich.

  She sighed. And then a dark blue suit, pale yellow shirt, and pastel-colored paisley tie appeared in front of her, as if conjured by her exhalation.

  Nice touch, she thought. A bit of fancy to offset the otherwise conservative look.

  The suit surprised her by pulling out a chair and sitting down. A stranger was now a mere eighteen inches away. There was a slight smile on his lips. He was enjoying confounding her in this way. She saw black hair gelled back from his forehead, a jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard, and a tie yanked back from the unbuttoned shirt collar. He was handsome—an observation she resisted but that came on anyway, like an uncontrolled reflex. Colden swung her eyes around the room. One other woman, hair short and severe, with black roots and platinum tips, a barbell through her nose and a scowl on her face, had come in and was tapping on a silver computer in the far corner. The other four tables were still empty.

  “Hi,” the man across from her said cheerfully.

  “Hi,” she replied cautiously.

  His lips were dark and full, his teeth white, his eyes dark brown. She tried not to smile back at him. Neither said anything for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said, even though she wasn’t. “Do I know you?” she asked, even though she knew she didn’t.

  She was trying to do something she’d watched her father do: give a stranger the benefit of the doubt by asking a question before offering any information. It was a way of being polite but also circumspect.

  The man across from her casually shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  He ran his palm over his hair and then extended it across the table. Colden wondered if it would be slick with hair gel.

  “I’m Andrew. Most people call me Drew,” he said.

  Colden kept her hands in her lap. He pulled his back.

  “Sorry. Look. Don’t mean to bother you,” he said. “Want me to leave? I’ll leave.”

  He pushed back his chair and lifted his body slightly, but he did not leave. Colden remained quiet. He sat back down.

  “I’m just in town on business, been dealing with assholes all day, came in here. I promise I’m harmless. Just
wanted to say hi, be friendly, have a little conversation. Public place—I’m safe; you’re safe. Guy behind the counter knows me.” He waved to him. The waiter waved back. “If I’m bugging you, I’ll leave.”

  Colden shrugged. Drew folded his hands on the table.

  “You a local? Here on biz? Student, maybe a student?” he quizzed her.

  “Grad student,” she said.

  “Cool. Me, I’m a lawyer.”

  “Lobbyist?” Colden suggested, as if correcting him.

  Many lawyers around here were but didn’t want to admit it. Drew wagged his finger at her.

  “Ah, you’re sharp, aren’t you?” he said. “Not technically. Just have one client. An association whose interests I represent, but I am not a suit for hire, in the way of a traditional lobbyist.”

  Colden nodded. This performance was entertaining. She hadn’t decided if he knew he was performing or not. She’d never met anyone quite this brash before. Maybe this was truly his personality.

  “Colden,” she said.

  Drew looked at her, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion by the word she’d spoken.

  “That’s my name. Colden,” she explained.

  Drew cocked his head and stared off into the distance. His lips worked over her name several times.

  “Colden. Colden. Unusual name, but sounds familiar. Why? Wait, wait. Oh yes, like that book. That famous book. About the phonies. The guy who hates phonies. Had to read it in high school. Little red thing . . .”

  “That’s Holden,” she said. “Not Colden. Holden Caulfield. Catcher in the Rye.”

  “Right, right, right,” Drew said, drumming his fingers on the table. The waiter brought him something very dark, in a tiny cup. “Thanks, man,” Drew said with easy familiarity.

  Colden sat still, watching him. This was something she knew how to do, to wait and see what happened, without giving herself away. It was a professional skill required when working with wildlife. Humans, on the other hand, often found this behavior of hers a tad disconcerting. The man in front of her took a small sip of his drink.

  “So, you’ve got brains and beauty,” he eventually said, without looking up.

  Colden couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. She felt herself blush but with annoyance, not embarrassment. She did not like remarks about her appearance, especially compliments.

  “I mean it,” he said.

  Colden thought this might be true but didn’t know why it mattered.

  “Don’t like your cake?” he asked, gesturing with his cup toward her plate.

  “It’s a little sweet.”

  “And you’re sweet enough.”

  Colden rolled her eyes. She was no good at flirting. Also, no good at being flirted with. Drew grinned, undaunted, unembarrassed.

  “Lame, huh?” he teased.

  Colden nodded.

  “I’m being an idiot.”

  “You’re actually being rather amusing.”

  “That’s generous of you.” Drew looked ever-so-slightly deflated. He shifted in his seat. “So, grad student. What are you studying? Art? History? Literature? Tell me something about yourself. I’ve been with boring business dudes in the paper industry all day, and honestly, I just need a break. I don’t live here. Don’t have friends here. Usually this coffee shop is a great place to come make conversation with whoever is around. Tends toward the political. Which I get enough of. You seem like a nice person. Just say the word, and I’ll leave. Or, better, tell me about yourself. I’ve got no good stories to share today, so why don’t you tell me one? How’d you get that name? It’s unusual. Never heard it before.”

  “It’s a mountain. And a lake.”

  “A mountain. A lake. And a woman.”

  Colden shrugged again.

  “Where?” he asked. “Where is this mysterious mountain and lake? And woman?”

  “The Adirondacks.”

  He gave her that questioning look again.

  “North of here.”

  “Oh. Local girl?” He sounded slightly disappointed.

  “Not exactly. It’s a couple of hours north of here.”

  “Isn’t that, like, Canada?”

  “Not quite. You’d have to drive a few more hours.”

  His questions and his accent had alerted her to the fact that he was likely from the New York City area. Most people from there thought that New York State ended on the far side of Albany and were unaware of the six-million-acre swath of wilderness that stretched between the capital and the Canadian border.

  “Actually, I’m just teasing,” he said. “I know about the Adirondacks. A tiny bit, anyway. My client. Paper company. Has operations up there, I guess. I’m new to the job.”

  Colden sipped her latte and said, “Wildlife biology and conservation.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You asked what I was studying.”

  “Conservation? Oh jeez. You probably hate guys like me.”

  Colden took another bite of her cake.

  “Not necessarily,” she said. “There are some paper companies that have done really good things. Public–private partnerships that help conservation efforts and provide jobs. Sometimes they plant more trees than they actually remove.”

  “See,” Drew said, smacking his hand on the table. “That’s what I’m talking about. I should have you come testify on my client’s behalf.”

  “Yet, you don’t even know where Lake Colden is,” she chastised.

  “Nope, guilty as charged, ma’am,” he said. “I live in the city. Well, Hoboken, actually. But that’s basically the city, these days. Costs almost as much, anyway. I just started. January will be my first legislative session.”

  “Well,” she said, “you might, you know, want to head north and see the raw material that’s funding your role, don’t you think?” Colden said.

  “Absolutely. It’s on the calendar.” He grinned at her. “If I promise to go, will you promise to show me around?”

  Colden shook her head, smiled indulgently, told him it was nice to meet him, and collected her things. This time, she did shake his hand when it was offered. It was smooth, soft, and dry. She waved good-bye and left without answering his invitation or leaving him any way to contact her. The offer was not something she took seriously. Neither was he. When she looked back through the window, he was eating what was left of her cake.

  The next day, Colden was at her desk early. She powered up her desktop computer and logged into the university’s scientific archives. She checked every scientific journal she could think of and did a variety of online searches to see if anyone was publishing work or looking for grants to fund work on anything related to interactions between coyotes and wolves in the lower forty-eight states. After more than an hour of scanning, she found nothing other than a few efforts to discover how wolf kills impacted the scavenging habits of lower-level predators, like coyotes and foxes. Good. There seemed to be nothing that might threaten to preempt her simmering ideas. The scientific gap she hoped to fill one day remained. It was time for more coffee. She was just about to push her chair back when a reflection appeared on her monitor. Large glasses, loose jowls, thinning, steel-wool hair.

  “Decided to come in from the cold?”

  Larry. His voice like a rasp over wood.

  Colden stiffened and resisted the temptation to start closing the still-open tabs and windows visible on her screen. Instead, she turned her chair and hoped her body would block his view of her computer.

  “Hey, Larry. What’s up?”

  She tried to sound casual. It was difficult to keep the defensive note from her voice. Larry was the type of guy who stood too close, didn’t keep his eyes on your face, was cagey when queried about his professional background, and interrupted midsentence, even when you were answering a question he had asked. He was a mansplainer. But there was more than that. It was worse than that. She just couldn’t pin down exactly what made it worse.

  “You here for the rest of the term?” he aske
d.

  “In and out.”

  “No classes to teach?”

  These queries were none of his business. He acted like he was her superior or a department head. He was neither. A professor, yes; senior to her, yes. Not the boss of her, though.

  “Just an online class this term and nothing next term.”

  “All research, then? Going home for the Thanksgiving break?”

  Colden wanted to get him to stop grilling her, but she didn’t know how. She was trapped in her cubicle, with him blocking her escape.

  “That’s a couple of weeks away yet. We’ll see how the weather is,” she replied.

  “You don’t seem like the type of woman who would be daunted by a few snowflakes,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Not a few, no,” she replied. “But if it’s two feet, on a holiday weekend, with tons of people on the highways? It’s the other drivers that concern me most.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be here alone over the long weekend, myself. Just get some work done while everyone else is gone.”

  Colden reached for her coffee mug, making a motion to get up. He didn’t take the hint and stayed where he was. His eyes moved away from her face, over her shoulder, to her monitor.

  “Coyotes?” he said suspiciously. “Thought you were into beaver and moose.”

  “Well, they’re all sharing the same environment and habitat,” Colden blurted out. She didn’t want him questioning why she was looking into canid behavior. “Just looking for some overlaps with my beaver and moose research,” she dissembled.

  Having little use for anything other than the truth, she knew she wasn’t a credible liar.

  “I’d like to know more about your moose research,” he said. “And coyotes are an area of interest for me, too.”

  Colden doubted either of these statements was true. Larry seemed interested only in whatever was getting attention or money. He was also strangely vague about his own research projects. Nothing was ever definite with him. Colden had looked him up once. He had very few articles in his name, and where he was listed, he was never the lead researcher. She couldn’t figure out how or why he’d gotten hired. No matter how off-putting and unimpressive he was, she had to find a way to accommodate him because she would likely require his support for her thesis. She hated this need and hated that he was so clearly aware of it.