Enchanted Forests (16 page)

enthusiastically, "He's great."

BENBOW               105

I nodded my agreement, and helped carry in the last few bags.

I showed Birk where to put his duffel, and 1 hung fresh towels

in the guest bathroom. When I claim it's not much of a place,

I'm being modest, if I say so myself. I took eariy retirement and

came up here to do one of the things I'd always dreamed of, de-

sign my own house and build it myself from the ground up. It's

not huge, but it's done right, snug and solid even in the worst

storms. It's two bedrooms and two baths, bigger than Scratch and

I really need, but we like having company. It gets too lonely

without people around, and they're more likely to come if there's

plenty of space. I probably would have built closer to my daugh-

ter if I could have afforded it. I never give up hoping she'll come

here someday and bring my grandkids, but so far, no luck. She

tends to act like I'm dead except when she needs money. I can't

blame her. I just wish she'd forgive me.

Birk said if it was all right with me he'd wait till bedtime for

Us shower. He asked if I needed help getting dinner, and when

I said, **No, take a load off," he said he'd like to fool around out

in the yard a while. I said that sounded fine. I expected him to

go out and throw a stick for Scratch or something. I was busy

putting the groceries away, and I didn't think much about it till

I glanced out the window and saw him down on his hands and

knees in the vegetable garden. He appeared to be weeding, a

very odd thing for a boy his age to do voluntarily.

About the time I put the lamb chops in the pan, he tapped at

the kitchen door and walked in with his arms full of produce. He

had harvested several tomatoes, some green onions, lettuce, peas,

and a few small zucchinis. It was more than the two of us could

eat and I felt a little irritated about it

"You get all that from my garden?"

He nodded, grinning.

"That's great, though I kind of wish you'd asked first."

The grin disappeared and he stammered, "Oh ... oh, I'm

sorry. I didn't mean to ... it's just they won't be nearly as good

tomorrow. They're ready right now, and it's always best to pick

things at their peak. Better for the plants, too."

I helped him load the stuff into a basket. "Where'd you learn

so much about growing vegetables?"

"I dunno," he said. "Seems like I've always known how. My

mom ..." His voice caught and he looked at the floor. "My mom

says I have a green thumb."

I thought about asking him if he didn't think maybe his mom

was a little worried about him right now. But I could see he

106 Nancy Etcnemendy

didn't need the reminder. He knew very well she was worried. I

wondered yet again what he hoped to find at Benbow, something

so important that he would run away from home and face a

frightening series of hitchhikes for it My curiosity shortly over-

came my tact

"So where is your mom? Where do you live?" I asked. I flipped

the lamb chops over and sliced two of the tomatoes into a little

salad, Birk wandered to the sink and washed his hands, slowly and

thoroughly. I thought maybe he was never going to answer.

"San Francisco," he said finally.

He was much farther from home than I'd thought It's a couple

hundred miles from here to the Bay Area, much of it on narrow

mountain roads. I had him pegged as a small-town boy. Maybe

it was his interest in growing things that made me think that, be-

cause it didn't seem to fit the profile of a city kid.

I motioned him to me table and set a loaded plate in front of

him- "So what's so important about Benbow?"

He gave me that look, the same one I'd gotten when I asked

his last name. He didn't say anything, just went about the impor-

tant business of cutting ha meat

I shrugged. "Don't mind me. Sometimes I'm too nosy for my

own good," I said. Which was an understatement

Tilings might have been all right if I had just left them at that.

But I didn't Maybe my feelings were hurt because he wouldn't

open up, or because he knew more about vegetables than I did.

Maybe I was just worried about how much trouble I could get

into for picking up a stray and doing anything except driving him

straight to the nearest authorities. Maybe he reminded me too

much of my own son. Whatever the reasons, I said, "Oh, I forgot

to tell you, no hats at the table. It's a house rule."

He dropped his knife and folk on his plate and said softly, '*!

need to keep it on."

"No you don't," I said. "You just want to keep it on. There's

a difference-'*

He got to his feet and started for the door, then after a sec-

ond's hesitation came back and picked up his plate.

Without a word, he walked out to the porch, leaving me with

a piece of lamb halfway to my mouth. I heard the groan of a

deck chair and the renewed scraping of his cutlery. I was lucky

he didn't run off into the night.

After dinner, he helped with the dishes. He did this silently, in

spite of my best efforts to start a conversation. A thin, clammy

BENBOW              107

fog had rolled in off the sea, and I threw a log in the wood stove

to keep Scratch's joints warm. Birk said he was tired and ex-

cused himself- I was astonished to see my dog abandon the

hearth and follow him to his room. A few minutes later, I heard

the water running in the shower. I sat alone in the firelight a

while, mentally kicking myself for letting something as silly as

a baseball cap take me back to square one with this gentle,

frightened boy. Sometimes it seems to me that we are doomed to

make the same mistakes over and over again, no matter how

hard we try to change ourselves.

Eventually, I got tired, too, and I went off to my own bed-

room. On the way, feeling tender and guilty, I tapped on Birk's

door, which stood a little ajar. There was no answer, so I opened

it further and looked in. Scratch snored on the rug at the foot of

the bed where Birk lay in the open-mouthed sleep of an ex-

hausted child. Half the blankets had fallen to the floor. He wore

partially buttoned pajamas that looked freshly laundered. The

grimy Oakland A's baseball cap was firmly settled on his head-

1 shivered, as suddenly and inexplicably as I had earlier beside

Birk in the truck. Chiding myself for this groundless skittishness,

I pulled the covers over him and tucked them around his chin.

Gently, I removed the hat. For a moment, what I saw simply left

me confused. He looked and smelled freshly showered, and what

I could see of his hair was clearly damp as if he'd washed it But

the leaves I had noticed earlier in the day still clung there. 1 went

to the hall light and flipped it on so I could see better without

waking him. Hundreds of leaves mingled with his dark curls,

small and slender as if from a miniature willow—not dry, but

green and healthy looking. I pinched one between my fingertips

and tugged experimentally, but it wouldn't come out. It seemed

quite firmly attached. I eased the baseball cap back onto his head

and rushed out of the room.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, unable to quite believe

what I'd seen. I tiptoed back into the room and took another

look. The leaves were still there. I lifted the elastic waistband of

his pajamas and peeked southward. He had leaves there, too.

Shaking, 1 made my way to the kitchen and did something that's

rare for me. I poured myself a short bourbon and drank it

straight. I sat by the fire a few minutes, then went back to Birk's

room. The situation remained unchanged. I thought of my

mother, who died of Alzheimer's a few years before I retired.

She used to have conversations with people long dead. She be-

108                 Nancy Etcnemendy

lieved that her sister lived on the moon, and that my shoelaces

were garter snakes. Maybe this was how it began.

Hours passed before I came anywhere near sleeping. The

whole situation shook me badly, and stirred up ghosts and mem-

ories that made rest impossible. I wondered if Birk's parents

knew why he'd gone. The leaves were small and bright, like a

tree's new spring growth. Maybe they were a recent develop-

ment, something he'd hidden from them until it became impos-

sible.

I knew what it was like to sleepwalk through three days and

nights, wondering where your son was and imagining the worst.

My daughter called me one evening, frantic, to say her brother

had run away from home and she was afraid he might kill him-

self. She didn't know where her mother was. I did my best to fix

things, but it was too late.

I remembered the phone call from the police—professional,

detached. "Are you the father of Robert Marston of 1750 Wash-

ington Street ... a person matching your son's description was

struck and killed by a Southern Pacific Railroad train near the

Center Street crossing at 1:55 a.m. ... we're unable to find the

boy's mother ... could you meet us at the hospital ..." Neither

of us was ever there when Bobby needed us. Why can't people

listen to their children? Why can't children tell us what they

need?

Eventually I dragged myself from my chair by the fire and

made my way to bed, where I spent the rest of the night dozing

and dreaming of my children with leaves instead of hair, who

called to me through the bars of my mother's room in the Alz-

heimer's ward.

When I woke up, a wide swath of midmoming sun warmed

my blankets, and Scratch was whining to be let out. I knew im-

mediately that I had overslept.

I crawled out of bed feeling stiff and old, struggled into my

bathrobe, and opened the door for Scratch who bolted like a

stone from a slingshot This was unusual, though I wasn't awake

enough for it to sink in till later. I guess I thought he must feel

the same way I did—that nothing else in the world was quite as

important as peeing. On my way back from the toilet, I peeked

into the guest room. Sunlight danced cheerfully over the neat bed

and the spotless floor, no wrinkled sheets, no dirty clothes or

damp towels. The canvas duffel and its owner had disappeared,

BENBOW              109

leaving no evidence of their existence except my memory of

them, which suddenly seemed inadequate.

I hurried into jeans and a shirt and combed my hair with my

hands as I rushed out the front door. I was in for another shock.

The yard looked incredible. The grass seemed freshly mown, ev-

ery blade crisp and vigorously green, though I had no recollec-

tion of having heard the mower. The leaves of each tree and

shrub gleamed with health. Rowers that had previously brought

forth only anemic foliage now drooped with lively blossoms- The

vegetable garden was a canner's dream. Plump beans and ripe to-

matoes had developed overnight, and the corn swayed with

heavy, sweet ears. Bird calls and the whisper of bees filled the

air. If I needed evidence of Birk's visit, here it was in profusion.

Scratch ran back and forth between me and the pickup truck,

barking at nothing I could see. The message was clear.

"All right, pal," I said as I helped him onto the seat. "We're

going to Benbow."

It was one of those days when bright sunlight burns away all

subtleties, leaving only brilliance and deep shadow. The smells

of warm pine sap and seawater filled the air. Everything seemed

clear. Birk must have risen early and gone off to finish his quest

as he had begun it, alone. When you're fourteen years old, you

think your biggest problem is conquering your fears. You have

no way of knowing that sometimes fear is a good thing, that it

can lead to survival even if it makes you desperate. My daughter

blames me for not having been there to make Bobby understand

that before it was too late. And she is right.

1 knew the road well, and I pushed the old truck to its limits,

squealing the tires on the curves and praying the brakes held out.

Scratch glared at me in baffled surprise as he slid back and forth

on the seat, unable to connect our hurry with the rough ride. We

reached the Benbow road in twenty minutes, probably a record.

I let the truck idle a minute while I got out and scouted the

overgrown trail that led to the old commune. There were wash-

outs and fallen trees everywhere. Decomposed forest debris

made the soil spongy. It was impossible to tell whether anyone

had walked on it recently. Taking the pickup down it would have

been crazy. I knew I'd be stuck within a hundred feet.

Scratch whined and barked from the cab of the truck, trying to

squeeze his big black body through four inches of open window.

He was no bloodhound, but he thought the world of our leafy-

haired friend. If Birk had walked down this road. Scratch would

know.

110                 Nancy Etchemenjy

I reached in and turned off the truck's engine, pulled a leash

out of the glove compartment, and clipped it to Scratch's collar.