“Nearly that.”
“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.”
“You came with a gun?” Dawson asked.
“A thirty-two automatic.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“It’s taped to the small of my back.”
“You’ve practiced drawing it?”
“I can have it in my hand in less than five seconds.”
Dawson nodded approval. “And you would have used me as a shield to get off the estate.”
“I would have tried.”
They both laughed and regarded each other with something very near to affection. They were delighted with themselves.
Jesus Christ! Salsbury thought. He nervously sipped his champagne.
5
Friday, August 19, 1977
Paul and Mark sat cross-legged, side by side on the dew-damp mountain grass. They were as still as stones. Even Mark, who loathed inactivity and to whom patience was an irritant rather than a virtue, did no more than blink his eyes.
Around them lay a breath-taking panorama of virtually unspoiled land. On three sides of their clearing, a dense, purple-green, almost primeval forest rose like walls. To their right the clearing opened at the head of a narrow valley; and the town of Black River, two miles away, shimmered like a patch of opalescent fungus on the emerald quilt of the wild land. The only other scar of civilization was the Big Union mill, which was barely visible, three miles on the other side of Black River. Even so, from this distance the huge buildings did not resemble millworks so much as they did the ramparts, gates, and towers of castles. The planned forests that supplied Big Union, and which were less attractive than the natural woods, were out of sight beyond the next mountain. Blue sky and fast-moving white clouds overhung what could have passed for a scene of Eden in a biblical film.
Paul and Mark were not interested in the scenery. Their attention was fixed on a small, red-brown squirrel.
For the past five days they had been putting out food for the squirrel — dry roasted peanuts and sectioned apples — hoping to make friends with it and gradually to domesticate it. Day by day it crept closer to the food, and yesterday it took a few bites before succumbing to fear and scampering away.
Now, as they watched, it came forth from the perimeter of the woods, three or four quick yet cautious steps at a time, pausing again and again to study the man and boy. When it finally reached the food, it picked up a piece of the apple in its tiny forepaws and, sitting back on its haunches, began to eat.
When the animal finished the first slice and picked up another, Mark said, “He won’t take his eyes off us. Not even for a second.”
As the boy spoke the squirrel became suddenly as still as they were. It cocked its head and fixed them with one large brown eye.
Paul had said they could whisper, breaking their rule of silence, if the squirrel had gained courage since yesterday and managed to stay at the food for more than a few seconds. If they were to domesticate it, the animal would have to become accustomed to their voices.
“Please don’t be scared,” Mark said softly. Paul had promised that, if the squirrel could be tamed, Mark would be allowed to take it home and make a pet of it. “Please, don’t run away.”
Not yet prepared to trust them, it dropped the slice of apple, turned, bounded into the forest, and scrambled to the upper branches of a maple tree.
Mark jumped up. “Ah, heck! We wouldn’t have hurt you, you dumb squirrel!” Disappointment lined his face.
“Stay calm. He’ll be back again tomorrow,” Paul said. He stood and stretched his stiff muscles.
“He’ll never trust us.”
“Yes, he will. Little by little.”
“We’ll never tame him.”
“Little by little,” Paul said. “He can’t be converted in one week. You’ve got to be patient.”
“I’m not very good at being patient.”
“I know. But you’ll learn.”
“Little by little?”
“That’s right,” Paul said. He bent over, picked up the apple slices and peanuts, and dropped them into a plastic bag.
“Hey,” Mark said, “maybe he’s mad at us because we always take the food when we leave.”
Paul laughed. “Maybe so. But if he got in the habit of sneaking back and eating after we’ve gone, he wouldn’t have any reason to come out while we’re here.”
As they started back toward camp, which lay at the far end of the two-hundred-yard-long mountain meadow, Paul gradually became aware again of the beautiful day as if it were a mosaic for all the senses, falling into place around him, piece by piece. The warm summer breeze. White daisies gleaming in the grass, and here and there a butter-cup. The odor of grass and earth and wild flowers. The constant rustle of leaves and the gentle soughing of the breeze in the pine boughs. The trilling of birds. The solemn shadows of the forest. High above, a hawk wheeled into sight, the last piece of the mosaic; its shrill cry seemed filled with pride, as if it knew that it had capped the scene, as if it thought it had pulled down the sky with its wings.
The time had come for their weekly trip into town to replenish their supply of perishable goods — but for a moment he didn’t want to leave the mountain. Even Black River — small, nearly isolated from the modern world, singularly peaceful — would seem raucous when compared to the serenity of the forest.
But of course Black River offered more than fresh eggs, milk, butter, and other groceries: Jenny was there.
As they drew near the camp, Mark ran ahead. He pushed aside a pair of yellow canvas flaps and peered into the large tent that they had erected in the shadow of several eight-foot hemlocks and firs. A second later he turned away from the tent, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Rya! Hey, Rya!”
“Here,” she said, coming out from behind the tent. For an instant Paul couldn’t believe what he saw: a small young squirrel perched on her right arm, its claws hooked through the sleeve of her corduroy jacket. It was chewing on a piece of apple, and she was petting it gently.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
“Chocolate.”
“Chocolate?”
She grinned. “I started out trying to lure it with the same bait you and Mark have been using. But then I figured that a squirrel can probably get nuts and apples on his own. But he can’t get chocolate. I figured the smell would be irresistible — and it was! He was eating out of my hand by Wednesday, but I didn’t want you to know about him until I was sure he’d gotten over the worst of his fear of humans.”
“He’s not eating chocolate now.”
“Too much of it wouldn’t be good for him.”
The squirrel raised its head and looked quizzically at Paul. Then it continued gnawing on the piece of apple in its forepaws.
“Do you like him, Mark?” Rya asked. As she spoke her grin melted into a frown.
Paul saw why: the boy was close to tears. He wanted a squirrel of his own — but he knew they couldn’t take two of the animals home with them. His lower lip quivered; however, he was determined not to cry.
Rya recovered quickly. Smiling, she said, “Well, Mark? Do you like him? I’ll be upset if you don’t. I went to an awful lot of trouble to get him for you.”
You little sweetheart, Paul thought.
