Castle: A Novel (4 page)

Almost immediately I became tangled in a thicket. Thorns and burrs caught at my pants, and saplings snapped against my face. I half-closed my eyes and ventured forth, my boots ripping and cracking the tangle below. I gripped the tree trunks and pulled myself along.

After about ten feet, the going became easier. The heavy shadows of the woods discouraged low brush, and I was left with only deadfall to contend with. To be sure, the deadfall was a problem—variegated, chaotic, and covered over by dead leaves and moss, it formed a second ground surface above the real ground, which was visible only in small patches. It would have been impossible to step from one of these areas to the next, as with rocks in a stream; they were too haphazard, and too far apart. Instead, I was forced to make my way by balancing on broken branches and slick patches of slime. The potential to trip, fall, or twist an ankle was very great, and my frustration quickly grew. I was forced to direct 90 percent of my attention toward the problem of staying upright and not hurting myself, when what I really wanted was to get a sense of the geography of my woods. Imagine my surprise and anger when I turned to find that I could still see the house behind me—the treeline was barely thirty feet away!

Still, I persisted. I believe powerfully in succeeding at something the first time, no matter how challenging: the first try sets the tone for all subsequent effort, and a failure now would dampen my future morale. So I forged on. After a time, the ground began to level out, and I had the sensation that I was moving uphill; but a break to get my bearings told me that this was merely an illusion, brought on by the difficulty of the terrain. I opened my water bottle and took a deep sip, disappointed in myself for succumbing so soon to my thirst. With a sigh, I reshouldered my pack and forged on.

I have an excellent sense of direction, and had learned in much more perilous situations than this one that it could be counted upon in challenging circumstances. But as I trudged through the forest, I began to get the uncomfortable feeling that I had lost my way. There was no evidence that this was so, although my house was far from view now and the sun invisible behind thick clouds. Nevertheless, the woods had taken on an unrelenting, almost unnatural sameness, the trees evenly distributed, the ground uniformly impassible; and it was with some considerable embarrassment and frustration that I realized I had not brought a compass with me. I am afraid I swore under my breath, there in the silence—and silent it was, for I had seen no living thing, not a single squirrel or chipmunk, since I crossed over the treeline.

I was relieved, then, to discover that the ground had begun to slope downward again. From my house on the southwest corner of the land I had set off to the northeast, and this decline was likely to represent the approach toward the center of my property. That would put the rock somewhat to my right. Satisfied that this was so, I sat down on a fallen log and began to eat my lunch.

I had been seated for about ten minutes, my back resting against a tree trunk, when I had a peculiar experience. I had closed my eyes for a moment, in an effort to gather myself for the next few hours of walking, when I heard a noise—the sound of a branch brushing against something, then snapping back, followed by the crack of a twig. I slowly turned my head, so as not to startle whatever it was that had made the noise, and opened my eyes. About fifteen feet away, blinking in the gray light, stood a doe.

It wasn’t an ordinary deer, however. Save for its hooves, nose, and eyes, it was entirely white.

Now, I should add here that such animals are not rare in the greater Milan-Gerrysburg area. Indeed, they are one of our region’s only claims to fame, and a small fame at that. The deer are not albino—their eyes lack the pale pink hue common to such animals, and they are not known to suffer from the health problems associated with albinism. These deer are normal, save for the color of their fur. They are thought to have come into being as a result of a genetic mutation in a herd that once lived within the fence of a large, abandoned military depot. Over time, the white color became dominant, and soon the entire herd, isolated by the fence, was white.

Eventually, in places, the fence collapsed, or was knocked down by vandals, and the herd slowly assimilated back into the greater population. And so, though they were uncommon, these deer were often seen in our township, and were evidently much beloved by local residents.

But it wasn’t merely my sighting of the white doe that accounted for the peculiarity of the moment. It was that, somehow, I recognized
this particular deer—
the one that was now placidly staring at me through the crowded alley of tree trunks. I couldn’t have said what it was about the animal that was familiar—what set it apart from other, similar animals I had seen in my life—nor could I even have identified what parts of any deer tended to differ from individual to individual. I merely understood, instinctively, that this was
my deer,
and that the animal
wanted
me to see it.

I want to make it clear that I am not the kind of person who subscribes to half-baked, magical ideas. I do not believe in portents, or omens, or signs. On the subject of an omniscient deity, I am firmly agnostic, confident only that the existence of such an entity is beyond knowing. So it is with some trepidation that I advance the idea that I had some kind of special connection to this doe. Nevertheless, I have been trained to do what I am told, and to report the facts as I find them, and the fact is that, as I sat on a rotting tree trunk in the middle of my leafless wood, something did indeed pass between me and a solitary white deer, and I felt—I am afraid to say—a profound
rightness
in the encounter, along the edge of which played a very faint hint of fear.

Soon, I became uncomfortable staring at the white doe, so I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the tree behind me, and waited for it to leave. I turned over the incident in my mind, attempting to make sense of it. After a time, I opened my eyes, and the deer was gone.

It was tempting to consider the possibility that what I had just experienced was some kind of hallucination or dream. Indeed, I was very tired after my journey to the center of the forest, and it is certainly possible that I had, at some point during my respite, actually dozed off. But I did not feel refreshed, and had no sense of time having passed, and thus was able to renew my confidence that what had just happened was real.

This episode in the woods, however, was about to come to an end, on the heels of a second peculiar event, one that, furthermore, made me feel quite foolish. As I gathered my things and stood, I thought I heard a sound, a kind of rushing rumble, and I detected, once again, a bit of motion through the trees, opposite the direction the deer had come from. The motion was up on the ridge to the north, and for a split second I felt a deep terror: the motion was incredibly fast, much faster than any animal, and the noise strange, mechanical, out of place in this eerily calm wood.

But then, suddenly, I understood. It can’t be, I thought—but it had to be. I tramped across the incline, then hiked up the little hill that terminated in the ridge, and when I arrived I saw that I was right. What I had seen and heard through the trees was an eighteen-wheeler. I was standing on the shoulder of a paved road.

I stood for some minutes, trying to puzzle out how this was possible. I had begun at the southwest corner: my house. I had walked northeast, then turned due east, and descended into what I believed to be the belly of the lot. The rock, I was certain, was not far away, and slightly to the southeast. But here I was, standing on a road.

My excellent sense of direction had utterly malfunctioned. I didn’t even know what road it was I stood on, nor had I any idea which direction I should walk to reach my house. I chose left, and soon discovered it to be the correct choice, as a road sign revealed itself only a hundred yards beyond a small rise. I had been on Nemesis Road, and now neared its intersection with Phoebus. The northwest corner of the property. This meant that I had never strayed far from any road, and had walked due north once my house was out of sight.

My walk down Phoebus Road was swift and disheartening. A personal and professional skill that had meant a great deal to me now appeared to be gone. Was it my age? Such things, however, could be fought against, and defeated. I resolved that I would not grow complacent, and sacrifice my talents to the onset of middle age. I would retrain myself in the woods, and regain my former strength. By the time I drew near the intersection with Lyssa Road, some of my enthusiasm and self-respect had returned, and I almost relished the period of hard work and recovery that was to ensue. I had faced greater challenges before, had been forced to fall back, reassess, and redouble my efforts: surely I would succeed here, as well. Despite my exhaustion, my step was a bit lighter, my thoughts less dark. The project of my life was back on track.

Thus engaged in thought, I did not notice the pickup truck in my drive until I had nearly reached my front door. The sight pulled me up short: I didn’t recognize this vehicle. It was nestled up next to my SUV, dwarfed by it, in fact—a small, rusted-out red Nissan with a missing tailgate. I had no idea who would possibly want to pay me a visit, or could even know I was here.

I did not have to wait long to find out. I approached the front stoop still peering over my shoulder at the truck, and so almost tripped over the woman sitting there, lazily arrayed like the tongue of my house’s red maw.

She was gray-haired and thin, in her late forties or early fifties, and gave every impression of a person battered by experience. She wore an old pair of jeans, a dirty tan hunting coat over a gray hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of frayed running sneakers. One leg was stuck out straight, resting on the steps; the other was folded up under it. Her hands lay on her knees, one of them with a lit cigarette poking out between two fingers. The lines in her face were deep, and her expression was partly hidden by her long, thin, dry hair; but her face nevertheless betrayed a familiar combination of emotions: surprise, amusement, judgment, concern. She carried about herself an air of superiority, in spite of her clearly low social station, and I felt myself succumbing, inexplicably, to her implied authority before she even opened her mouth.

It was not until she spoke my name that I understood why. She had changed a great deal in twenty-five years, but that rough, animated voice was the same as I remembered. It belonged to my sister.

FOUR

“Eric,” she said, with the hint of a smile.

“Jill,” I said simply.

We gazed at one another for several seconds, calculating. There was, I suppose, a moment when, if one of us had moved to embrace the other, this period of suspicion would not have had to occur. But neither of us did, and so we stared, studied, considered. The hint of a smile dwindled to a ghost, and I’m afraid my enervation must have shown. I wanted nothing more than to go inside and lie down. It would be hard to deny that Jill and I were not particularly happy to see each other, and we made no effort to hide the fact. Only after this mild mutual enmity had been established did our bodies and faces relax, and Jill stood up, and I invited her inside.

“The door was unlocked,” I said, as she passed over the threshold and into the living room, still empty of furniture.

“You might have taken me for a thief,” she said. “Figured you might shoot me or something.”

She inhaled deeply from her cigarette and blew smoke up toward the ceiling.

I unshouldered my pack and let it fall to the floor. “I’d appreciate it,” I said, “if you would not smoke inside the house.”

This elicited a smile. “That’s my little brother,” she said. “I guess you don’t have an ashtray. Maybe you could find me a plate.”

I went to the kitchen and beckoned for her to follow. She took a seat at the little round wooden table I had bought, and I found an old china plate in the cupboard, one that had been here when the house was abandoned. I considered sitting down with her, but something kept me standing. I leaned against the stove and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Two chairs,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Expecting somebody?”

“The table came with two chairs.”

“Right.”

We stared at one another for several minutes more. Of course I recognized my sister now: the thick, high, arched eyebrows; the long chin; the narrow shoulders and nervous blinking. But it was clear why she had failed to register at first. Living had changed her. She was older than I, but that did not account for the difference. Whereas I had staved off the worst effects of aging with exercise, self-discipline, and healthy eating, Jill had indulged herself from an early age, abusing her body, sleeping irregularly, and running with a dissolute, irresponsible crowd. It was obvious, to look at my sister now, that she had continued with her unsavory ways, and had suffered for it. To be perfectly honest, I pitied her.

As for the many years we had remained out of touch, it is impossible to lay blame at her feet or mine. But she had not, to the best of my recollection, given me any reason to desire her continued love and friendship. She appeared only briefly at our parents’ funeral, and if I remembered correctly, she was under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Even then, at twenty-four, she had already begun to age beyond her years, her face wan, her hair lank, and her eyes heavy and underslung with blue. What I saw now, in my kitchen, only confirmed what I might have imagined, had I ever had the desire to imagine it. Hers was clearly a wasted life—for my sister was not an unintelligent woman, nor had she always been cruel or apathetic. In fact, I harbored memories of her comfort, her companionship, when we were small children. I remembered the way she would hold me in her arms when I cried out of misery or fear, the way she stroked my hair and told me everything would be all right.

I assumed that she had never left the area, and asked if this were so. Her response was a rough cackle.

“Oh, Jesus no, little brother,” she said. “I was out west for years. That’s where I was when Mom and Dad bought it. I used to send you postcards, remember?”

I didn’t remember any such thing. But I lied that I did, to encourage her to continue, which she seemed eager to do. People, in my long experience, want to talk. They may believe they wish to keep secrets, and they may believe that they are capable of doing so. But the truth is that secrets exist to be revealed; and it is usually very easy to find the combination of words that will cause them to emerge.

My sister continued. “I was out in San Francisco then. But one of my boyfriends moved north—he got a job at a little school up on a mountain. I lived there awhile. Then I drifted. I lived in Oregon and Montana. I ended up meeting a fella at a music festival. He said he was from around here. Eventually we got married and his mom broke her hip and we came back here to take care of her. But she died.”

“You’re married?” I asked. There was no ring on her finger.

“Dammit, Eric, let me finish. We tried having a baby and it didn’t work out, I had a miscarriage. And after that we figured out we didn’t really want to be together anymore anyway. So we divorced, and I took up with Hank.”

“Hank,” I repeated.

“Yeah, my boyfriend. Man friend.” She snorted. “He’s got a spread out on Julep Hill. He’s a big hunter. So I live with him. I’ve been there like ten years. So in answer to your question, little bro, no, I left the area plenty. And I happen to be back. Just like you.”

“I see,” I said to her, although I did not regard our respective returns to be comparable. “How did you know I was here?”

“Somebody saw you in town.”

“Who?”

“A friend. And then I asked around.”

“Hmm.”

“Which leads me to the big question,” she said.

I waited for her to ask it, whatever she thought it was.

“Eric.”

“Yes?”

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

It was very like my sister to overdramatize such a question. But the fact was, my decision to move back to the Gerrysburg-Milan area was of no concern to her, and I did not intend to discuss it. Saying so, however, would merely intensify her questioning. I wanted her to leave. So, instead, I gave a curt reply.

“I needed a change,” I said.

This explanation managed to elicit laughter. “So you come
here?
” she said. “Beautiful.”

“The land is affordable, and I know the area well.”

“Yeah, you can say that again!”

“I don’t understand.”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Never mind,” she said. And then she averted her eyes for a moment, shifted in her seat, and looked up at me again. I was taken by surprise: her face was sober now, pained, and for the first time she appeared to me as a genuine adult. When her eyes again met mine, it was by the force of great effort and determination.

“Eric, look,” she said. “I want you to know that… I understand. About what happened. And, you know. I’m here for you.”

Anger was beginning to well up in me, and I struggled to tamp it down. The tone Jill had assumed was intensely familiar: that of the wise older sister, the protector, the paragon of selflessness and care. Did she have even the slightest idea how pathetic, how manipulative, she appeared to me now? The illusion of maturity that had tricked me just moments ago was torn away, and she was revealed for what she was: needy, self-absorbed, and small.

“I’m sorry, Jill,” I said, my jaw tight. “But I’m afraid you don’t understand at all.”

She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, exhaled slowly through her long nose. She turned to gaze out the kitchen window and appeared to gather herself.

“All right,” she said at last. “Maybe I don’t understand. But I know.”

“You may think you know something. But you know nothing.”

Now her lips tightened, and she shook her head, as if to say, “Why do I bother?”

I knew the gesture well, and it shames me to say that I lost my temper. The kitchen chair I stood beside found its way into my hands, and I lifted it three inches and banged it, with violent force, into my new linoleum floor.

“Enough!” I said to my sister, between clenched teeth. “Get out of my house.”

“Eric—” she began, but I would not hear it. I would not hear another word of hypocrisy from my sister’s mouth. The lies she had tortured me with—about our childhood, about our parents, our sad, doomed parents—would not be compounded. I knocked the chair to the floor with my open palm, and the pain that shot up my arm and into my shoulders registered as a kind of pleasure.

“Out!” I said. I suppose I was shouting. My sister stood up, trembling, and I must admit that I expected her familiar sneer to have taken its usual place on her face. But all I could find there was unhappiness and fear. Fear of my reaction, perhaps. But when a person has lived a life like hers, a life of promiscuity, rootlessness, and substance abuse, resentment and fear tend to replace all reasonable and proper emotions, and the world becomes your enemy.

She crept around the edge of the room, never once taking her eyes off me. When she passed through the doorway, I followed, into the hall, into the front room, over the threshold, and onto the stoop. There I remained, making sure she left. I watched her walk to her truck and open the door.

“I’m sorry, Eric,” she said to me. “I was only trying to help you.”

“Your kind of help is of no use to me.”

The fear was gone from her face now, supplanted by mere sadness, no doubt at the miserable life she had resigned herself to, and to which she was about to return.

For a moment, she appeared ready to say something. But in the end she climbed into the truck and drove away. I stood on the stoop for a long time, watching the truck recede into the distance of Lyssa Road. When finally it disappeared from sight, I waited there in the spring air for the tightness in my throat to subside.

By the time I turned to go back into the house, darkness had fallen. I had left no lights on, so I groped my way to the banister, slowly climbed the stairs, and stumbled into bed. I had only time to consider how little difference there appeared to be between sleeping and lying awake in darkness, before I fell soundly asleep.

The next morning, I woke to a new stiffness in my joints and an overall sense of disappointment and embarrassment. My failure in the woods and anger at my sister the day before had thrown my mind into disarray, and I felt the need to change tack. I would work inside the house, I decided—continue my improvements and try to enjoy the simple pleasures of labor.

I took up my pencil and clipboard, made a list, and drove to Milan, and the hardware store. My hope was not to have to encounter the tall, thin clerk who had affronted me some days before, and at first, when I pushed my cart in through the automatic doors, I thought that my hope would be realized. The only clerks visible were a couple of young women.

But fifteen minutes later, when I approached the checkout line, there he was. The store was quite crowded, despite the early hour, with middle-aged men wearing tool belts and sports-team-branded sweatshirts. Local contractors and builders, no doubt, preparing for their day’s work. I wheeled to the back of one of the young women’s lines, pretending not to see my nosy acquaintance. But in a frustrating trick of fate, the man in front of me had some intractable problem involving his company charge account, and meanwhile the tall clerk’s line quickly dwindled to nothing. He looked up at me from his register and signaled for me to pull into his lane.

I would not be so rude as to refuse. With a heavy heart, I did as he suggested, and began to unload my items onto the counter.

“Morning, Mr. Loesch,” he said.

“Hello,” I replied, surprised. Had I told this man my name? Perhaps he had remembered it from my credit card. I noticed that his name tag read
RANDALL
. But I declined to use this information.

To my temporary relief, Randall did not speak as he dragged my purchases over the price scanner and packed them into plastic bags. The credit card machine, however, took its time accessing my account, and as we stood waiting, he said to me, without turning, “You met a friend of mine the other day.”

Determined not to become annoyed, I replied with as much cheer as I could muster. “Is that so?”

“Mmm-hm,” he said, nodding. “Paul Hephner. The electrician.”

“Oh yes. Heph. He seems very good at what he does.”

“He’s the best there is,” Randall agreed. “We go way back. Hunting buddies.”

“I see.”

The cash register, at last, kicked back into life, and a receipt slid out silently from between its metal teeth. Randall tore it free and set it on the little transaction platform before me, along with a pen.

As I signed my name, he said, “You a hunting man, Mr. Loesch?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Just as well,” he told me, accepting the pen and receipt. He tucked my copy into one of my sacks and faced me, his arms crossed. “Those woods are a bitch to get through. And there isn’t much there.”

I transferred my bags to the cart and prepared to leave. “So you’ve hunted on my land,” I said.

“Tried to.” His eyes narrowed slightly.

I was free to leave, if I so desired. Nevertheless, and despite my reluctance to encourage this man in any way, I couldn’t resist making a small inquiry.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “When you explored those woods, did you ever reach the rock outcropping?”

He seemed to relish the question. A small smile stole over his gaunt face, and he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against his cash register. “Oh, I remember the rock you mean. Practically a little mountain, isn’t it? Just sticking up over the trees?”

“That’s the one.”

“If I recall, there was some talk of making our way to it, that day.”

“Yes?”

His smile spread into his eyes, and it was clear that he was enjoying playing with my expectations. He stroked his chin, gazing into space, pretending to think.

“But in the end,” he said finally, “we didn’t bother. Too much trouble.”

“I see.” I heard, in my own voice, more disappointment than I would have liked to betray.

“Don’t know that there’s anything to see, though. It’s just a rock, I’d imagine.”

“Of course.”

“You enjoy your renovations, Mr. Loesch.” I detected a bit of irony in his mode of address, and it was true, he was some years my senior, and by rights ought to be calling me Eric. I briefly considered telling him to do so in the future. But I had wasted enough time already, and I did not wish to further erode the wall of privacy I had erected between us. I thanked him curtly, and wheeled away, my muscles aching.