“Of course I remember. I only forget what I can’t remember.”
Mitch laughed. “You’re right, Aunt Helen. That’s true. Let’s find Amina before she goes home and you can give her the fruit.”
Amina was pleased with Helen’s gift but seemed distracted to Mitch. He didn’t feel it was his place to ask her if something was the matter, as much as he appreciated Amina’s genuine affection for his aunt. Probably, it had something to do with Amina’s nephew, he thought.
Amina walked to the Metro, the dried fruit in her purse, oblivious to the frozen ground crunching under her thin boots. Josephine had been distraught to the point of almost being incoherent. Amina had called her toward the end of the shift, concerned that she hadn’t heard and uncomforted by the thought that no news was good news. The MRI had shown a massive tumor on Thomas’ brain. The initial diagnosis was that it was inoperable, radiation was unlikely to shrink it significantly and her husband had, at most, only a few months to live. Josephine had a cousin in New York City who worked at Sloan Kettering. It had been difficult but the cousin had been able to arrange for Thomas to be examined there, early next week. Josephine was driving Thomas up on Sunday and staying with him in New York. She didn’t know when she would be back at work.
Amina would pray for Thomas. America is a strange place, she thought as she reached the Metro. She, a Muslim was praying for the health of her friend’s husband, a Seventh Day Adventist, and she and Josephine had only become friends because they both worked at a Jewish nursing home. They were all in Allah’s hands, she thought. She knew that with certainty. Muslim, Jew and Christian. All subject to God’s will and infinite mercy. As she descended the Metro escalator, she silently praised Allah and beseeched Him to heal Thomas.
Chapter Ten
Sunday dawned bitterly cold and grey. The weather forecast was for snow flurries to the north and west of the city, with little or no accumulation. Josh brought his compass and his ‘journal,’ a steno pad in a one gallon freezer zip-lock bag, along with a few pens and pencils. He had dutifully noted down the temperature as reported on the radio when he woke up, and made another entry an hour later. In addition to the beef and turkey jerky and the trail mix, Eleanor had made them cheese sandwiches and thrown in some cookies and apples. Josh had grabbed two cans of Coke and Mitch had made himself a thermos of coffee. Mitch packed his old knapsack with their food, a camera, extra pairs of socks for both of them, gloves and mittens and carried it to the car, along with his LL. Bean duck boots. He liked to wear them in deep snow but they were too clumsy to drive in. Oliver, sensing an adventure he thought he was entitled to be part of, got in everyone’s way at the front door, until Mitch put his empty water dish and the long leash in the Taurus. That signaled to Oliver he was going. He settled down on the living room rug, his head motionless between his paws, his dark brown eyes following everyone’s movements.
In contrast to Mitch’s black fleece and worn, faded blue anorak and Josh’s hoodie and North Face parka, Eleanor and Amy were elegantly dressed for brunch with grandma. Eleanor was wearing her dark maroon winter coat. The silver brooch in the shape of a sleeping swan, the one he liked so much, was pinned to her black collar. Amy, her long brown hair done up elegantly in a French braid, had on black leggings under a moderately short skirt. To Mitch she looked older than her twelve years. His mother- in- law had sensibly decided that she preferred not to drive in the snow. The plan was for Mitch to drop his wife and daughter off at her apartment. Eleanor would drive her mother’s car to the restaurant where the three of them would have brunch, then return to Mrs. Fessler’s for tea. Mitch and Josh would pick them up around 3pm and the four of them would go on to visit Aunt Helen before dinner.
They were out of the house by ten. Twenty minutes later, after the short diversion to Mrs. Fessler’s apartment building in Silver Spring, they exited 70S and were on the state highway heading south toward Sugar Loaf. Josh had moved up to the front seat. At The Comus Inn, Mitch turned right onto a much narrower road with hills and dips. Josh removed his compass from his pocket, took a reading and noted it down in the journal. Although it had been plowed, the road had patches of windblown snow where it curved by open fields on either side. Mitch slowed down to avoid fishtailing. The Taurus handled poorly in the snow and had no weight in the rear, except today for Oliver who was about 80 pounds. They really needed a second car, he thought. It would be nice if they could buy a used small SUV, like a Jeep Liberty or the Honda, whatever it was called. Something with all wheel drive.
“There’s a road to the top of Sugar Loaf,” Mitch said. “If it’s been plowed, we’ll drive up and hike around the peak. If not, we can hike up to the top. My recollection is it’s about a mile and a half, so three miles round trip. That sound good?”
“Sure dad. So what do I put in my journal?”
“Well, you read some of the real Lewis and Clark Journal. What did they write about?”
“The weather, the Indians they met, animals they saw, birds, trees and plants, things like that. Dad, did you know they sent back stuffed animals to President Jefferson. Animals that had never been seen before. Like prairie dogs.”
“They must have described the land they were passing through. They were the first non-native Americans to do so, except, I guess, for the French trappers.”
“Yeah, we read some entries like that.”
“So that’s the answer to your question, Josh. Look around, take notes about what you see. You know, what the terrain looks like, hilly, rocky, flat whatever, and then you can write it up as your journal entry for your class.” Mitch slowed down as the road curved sharply. The parking lot at the bottom of the mountain was partially cleared but the road to the summit was not. He pulled in front of the wooden rail fence and checked the temperature on the dashboard. “Josh. Want to know how cold it is here?”
Josh took out his notebook and leaned across the front seat. “Wow, 24 degrees.” He checked his first entry of the morning. “That’s seven degrees colder than when I woke up.”
“Yeah. I’d expect it to be colder here than in the city. We’re also further north.” Josh gave him a puzzled look. “I’m only kidding. We haven’t gone that far from DC. It’s just that we’re in the country.”
He and Ell used to come here often when they were first married, for long hikes and picnics, marveling at the view of the Potomac and the brilliant fall colors from the eastern side. From the Summit they could see the broad expanse of the valleys and farms to the north. After the kids had been born, when they had come to Sugar Loaf, they would each carry one of their children in frame back carriers, Mitch with Amy who was older and heavier, Eleanor with Josh. He remembered Amy’s little heels digging into the soft flesh above his hips, right about kidney level. They hadn’t been to Sugar Loaf as a family for ages. Too many scheduled kids’ activities on the weekends had gotten in the way. He couldn’t recall their ever coming in the wintertime.
“Ok, Josh. I guess we’re going to walk up hill. Let me get my boots.” He let Oliver out. The dog first rolled in the snow, arching his back and rubbing it before running exuberantly in circles, ending up back to the tailgate. Mitch finished lacing his boots and locked the car. His call to Josh was answered by a snowball hitting him in the back. He scooped snow off the car roof barehanded, packed it and whirled around, throwing wide of the tree shielding Josh. After a few more thrown back and forth, they started up the hill, following the road, Josh excitedly running ahead, plowing the snow with his boots. Mitch estimated there were about five inches on the ground, deeper in the woods on the sides of the road.
“Listen to how quiet it is,” he said to Josh as they walked together. He pulled his dark blue woolen watch cap down over his ears and snapped the straps of his backpack across his chest. His wet hands were cold inside his wool gloves. He pointed out the trees he could identify, mostly oaks he thought from their bark, their branches bare, some hemlocks here and there, their boughs bent with snow. The warmer weather the week before had induced
patches of snowbells to come out where the sun had shone through the naked trees. Now the white, cup shaped petals were bent over, doing penance for having the temerity to bloom too early. Josh stopped, carefully took his pad from the zip-lock bag in his parka pocket and wrote down the names of the trees and flowers.
“Why don’t you take a picture of the snowbells? That way you can describe them better when you are writing your journal entry,” Mitch said, swinging his knapsack off his shoulder and handing Josh the camera from the side pocket. Josh opened the velcroed flap on his mittens, exposing his fingers, held the camera and knelt down to get a close-up.
“We saw drawings they made in their journals. Do you think Mr. Randolph would let me include some photos?”
“Yeah, I’m sure he would,” Mitch said, before quickly correcting himself. “No. I think Mr. Randolph is trying to teach you how to observe and write about it. You can’t turn it into a photo album.”
Josh walked off the road up the hill toward the flowers. “Dad, look at these tracks. What are they?”
Mitch studied them, thought they might be squirrel and grabbed Oliver’s collar before he could mess them up.
“Take a picture of them too. Maybe we can look them up somewhere when we get home.”
The road was a series of sharp switchbacks to the summit. They cut the angle through the woods, joining up with the road at a higher level, walking along it for a while and then bushwhacking again. The snow was deeper in the woods than on the road. The covered fallen logs and rocks, made the going slower. They rested at Potomac Overlook, which gave Mitch a chance to catch his breath and check the cloud cover. Josh took another compass reading, facing uphill toward the summit. The sky was grey and threatening and the tops of the trees bent in the wind that had come up. Mitch guessed it would snow before they got back down to the car. He debated whether to turn back from the Overlook and decided it was worth taking Josh all the way up.
They bushwhacked one last time and Josh found deer tracks in the snow.
“Are you sure they’re deer tracks?” Mitch asked, squatting next to his son and looking at the split oval pointed impressions in the snow.
“I’m positive dad. I’ve seen them in other books. I know they are.” He took a photo and then carefully removed his pad from the zip-lock bag and drew a reasonably good facsimile of the tracks in his journal.
“That’s a great find, Josh. Good eyes. Let’s move on and eat lunch at the top.”
At the Summit, zipped up against the strong wind with their hoods tight around their heads, they stared out into the grey haze and light swirling snow beneath them to the north, Mitch whistled for Oliver who came racing around the large granite boulders.
Josh and Oliver posed as Mitch took a photo of the ‘Summit Climbers,’ as he dubbed them and checked his watch.
“Here’s an entry for your journal. It took us, call it an hour and say fifteen minutes to hike from the car to the summit.” Josh noted it down trailing his father through the flat snow covered expanse of the summit parking lot. Mitch found the picnic table he remembered on the left side of the lot, in the tall stand of hemlocks up against a rocky hill. There was some shelter here from the wind. He brushed the snow off the bench with the waterproof bottom of his backpack and took out their lunch. He opened the turkey jerky first and handed the package to Josh. They both chewed on the reddish colored, dense irregular slices. They tried the beef jerky next.
“Both are kind of sweet,” Mitch said, surprised by the taste. It wasn’t as tough as he had expected, although it was stringy. A chunk got stuck in the gap he had between his two last teeth on the upper right. “Do you know what jerky is?” he asked Josh.
“It’s some kind of dried meat. When Lewis and Clark killed anything, they always saved some and dried it to carry along with them. Like they had elk jerky, buffalo jerky, bear jerky, turkey jerky, and even snake jerky.”
“No, not snake jerky. You just made that up? Didn’t you.? Mitch asked, looking skeptically at his son.
Josh grinned at his own joke. “Yeah, dad.”
“Ok. Tell me. What would make jerky sweet?”
“Maple syrup?” Josh asked, reaching into the bag and taking out another large piece.
“That’s a good guess but I think they probably used molasses, or theirs wasn’t as sweet as what we’re eating. What’s the matter?” he asked, seeing the tension in his son’s face.
“Dad, I’ve got to pee real bad.”
“Go ahead. Find a tree, or do it out here in the open, I don’t care. Just move away from the picnic area.” He watched Josh dash toward a tree, fumbling with his pants as he ran. Young boys were so modest about being seen going to the bathroom, even by their fathers, Mitch thought. He took the opportunity of Josh’s absence to put his index finger way back inside his mouth and remove the annoying piece of jerky stuck in his teeth. He flicked it on the ground. Oliver came out from under the bench and licked it up. Mitch took out the dog’s water bowl and filled it from the plastic bottle. The dog ignored that offering. Mitch stood up and moved around. His feet were beginning to get numb. He wiggled his toes inside his boots, trying to restore feeling, and jumped up and down, keeping his hands in his pockets.
Josh sat down and reached into the backpack and took out a wrapped cheese sandwich.
“Hang on, Josh. How about washing your hands.”
“Dad. I’m eating with my mittens on.” Mitch let it go, knowing how cold his fingers felt, even inside his gloves.
Josh rubbed his mittened hands in the snow on the table and went through the motions as if he were washing his hands. Mitch passed his son the sandwich and dug into the backpack for the other one, the coke and the thermos. “If it’s this cold here in January, imagine how cold it must have been in the Dakotas when Lewis and Clark were there in the winter. Their piss probably froze before it hit the ground.” Josh grinned at his father, took another bite of his sandwich and laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
Josh hesitated before saying anything, then blurted out, “Dad, I didn’t want to pee because I was afraid my weenie would fall off in the cold.” Josh then cracked up with laughter, apparently at the image of what he had just said. Mitch chuckled and poured a cup of coffee from the thermos, warming his hands through his gloves and letting the steam from the hot liquid go up his nose. He offered the cup to Josh who took a small sip and made a face at the bitter, unsweetened taste, but held on to the cup.
They broke out the trail mix. Mitch found it difficult, with his gloves on, to grab handfuls of nuts, dried raisins and bits of chocolate. He gave up trying, tilted the bag and poured the mix into Josh’s mittened hand. They sat together quietly, listening to the wind and watching the small snow flakes fall steadily, leaving a fine granulated cover on the cleared part of the picnic table. Oliver shook the white dusting off his golden coat, the tags on his red collar rattling in the silence.
Mitch took off his right glove, picked out some of the chocolate chips from the trail mix and dropped them into his coffee. “Josh, you know sometimes in a family, there are fights, we get mad at each other, but that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“I know,” Josh said, avoiding looking at his father and digging into the trail mix bag.
“Both of you kids are very good at pushing our buttons. Amy especially gets to mom on certain things. When mom and I lose it, I blame us, because we’re your parents. We should be able to resist rising to the bait. You know what I’m saying.”
“I think so.”
“But there are times when you or Amy do something that makes one of us justifiably angry. When that happens, it means you really did something bad.”
“Like me hitting Amy with the ice ball?” Josh asked, his tone implying he knew what the answer would be.
“Yeah. That’s what I had in mind. You can measure how over the line the thing you did was by how mad mom got. She loves you and to make her shake with anger means on a scale of one to ten, you
were pretty close to ten. She was so upset because you had hurt your sister. We’re family. We can yell at each other, have arguments like we do, Like all normal people do. But we don’t intentionally physically hurt each other. You understand?”
“Yeah, dad, I do. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I really didn’t.”
Mitch looked at Josh and raised an eyebrow. “You made an ice ball, Josh. Not a snowball. You wanted it to hurt. I think you didn’t expect it would hurt her so much. But you were mad. Controlling your anger is part of growing up. If you’re mad about something, don’t let your anger get out of control and turn into physical violence.”
“That’s what mom did. She was so angry with me she shook me.”
“Yeah, Josh, that’s the point I’m trying to make. You did something that was so dangerous, mom lost control, even though she loves you very much. She grabbed you. She wouldn’t have reacted that way if you had bombarded Amy with snowballs. Think about it. Mom who is always so sweet and wonderful to all of us, turned into a different person, because you hurt Amy badly.”
“I told Amy I’m sorry. She said it’s ok,” Josh offered by way of explanation.
“I think you need to tell mom you’re sorry too. She needs to hear that from you. Look, Josh, Amy is going to be Bat Mizvahed in June. It’s her special birthday this year. It’s a big deal and she’ll get lots of attention and presents and have a big party. The same thing will happen when you turn thirteen. If you were our first child and it was your thirteenth birthday coming up, I’m sure Amy would feel the same way you do now. All I can say is we love you both but that doesn’t mean we have to do the exact same things with each of you to prove we love you equally. You understand?
“Like today,” Josh replied, looking up at him. “I’m out in the woods with you and Amy’s having lunch and tea with grandma?”
“Yeah. Would you rather be having tea with grandma?”
Josh grinned. “Naah, dad, that’s not for me.”
The Orange Tree Page 16
