George followed in his Mercedes, keeping Jess in sight. She was right, of course, about the double standard. I wasn’t ready. We were too new. In a strange way he believed it. The collector in him believed it: His time with Jess was too new, too sweet to share. But that was selfish. That was unfair. She deserved more than that. She needed more, and he could give her more. He could do better—if she would let him.
But she drove for hours in the rattling old car, and all he could do was trail after her. When he lent Jess the Honda he had never intended her to drive so far. Certainly not at this speed. He thought she would tire and pull over, but she did not. She drove for an hour, two hours, almost three, until she seemed to calm herself, slowing down, keeping to one lane as she cut through ranch land and timbered mountains.
When at last Jess exited, George followed, assuming she needed gas, but she did not drive to a rest stop; she took a winding road lined with colossal trees to a place called Fern Hollow, where she parked in the dirt lot.
He waited, but she did not get out of her car. Cautiously he approached and saw her sitting, staring at the dark tree trunks ahead.
“Jessamine.”
She didn’t answer.
“Jess.” He tapped on the glass until she rolled down the window.
“What?”
“What are you doing to my poor old Accord?”
She didn’t answer.
George walked around to the passenger side and let himself in. He sat next to Jess and waited. He was sure that she would speak, but she did not. She kept staring straight ahead.
“Do you want me to apologize?” George asked at last. “I apologize.”
She didn’t answer.
“I was worried about you.”
She turned on him. “You embarrassed me!”
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“What are you? My father?”
“Why do you have to be Joan of Arc?”
“Why do you have to be such a cynic?”
“Why do you think that trees have rights?” He saw that she was about to interrupt, and didn’t let her. “Do you really think redwoods are sentient beings? If you believe that, then vegetables have rights, and you shouldn’t eat anything at all.”
“You don’t care what kind of Earth your children inherit.”
“I don’t have children.”
“Exactly. That’s your problem, among other things.”
“Which are?”
“That you prefer objects to people.”
“I do not …,” George protested.
“Oh, really? I think you do. I think you made all that money, and you had your great expectations, but you got hurt, and now you just hide behind your stuff, because you think your books and your maps and your typewriter collection will last. You think they’ll last forever and they’ll never leave you. So in your mind you think you’re Pip, but actually you’re Miss Havisham.”
“Miss Havisham?”
“With books instead of clothes.”
“You love the books,” he reminded her. “You’re working with the books.”
But she ignored this. “You don’t have anything left for trees or animals or the outside world, because you’ve shut yourself in. You’re a shut-in. You’re like the curator of your own heart.”
Wounded, but too proud to let it show, he spoke lightly. “I see why I resisted therapy all these years. I was waiting for you to explain me to myself. And now that you have, I can reach out to other species. Does Leon count?”
“Don’t talk about Leon.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t even know him.”
“Oh, I exchanged some words with him. I think I was getting to know him pretty well.”
“George, do you think this is some kind of joke?”
“That depends on what ‘this’ is.”
“Then you’re just being snide? You’re trying to offend me? What exactly are you trying to do?”
“Let me see.” He reached for her hands.
“It’s just rope burn,” she said. “I’ll clean them up myself.”
“Let’s get some water.”
She hesitated.
“Oh, come on, Jess.”
At last, she got out. She found the park restrooms, and then followed him to his car.
“Q.E.D.,” she said when he opened the trunk and she saw his duffel bag, a case of bottled water, a tent, a first-aid kit, a cooler full of food. “You’ve got all your stuff as usual.”
“Is that such a bad thing, under the circumstances?” George handed her a water bottle. “Drink.”
There were two other cars in the lot, but no hikers visible. They walked down to a picnic table under the trees, and she let him wash and bandage her hands. He knelt down and removed her soggy old climbing shoes and wet socks. With a clean towel he dried her feet, rubbing them up and down. That was when she began to cry.
“Jess,” he whispered. “Darling.”
“Darling?” She tried out the word through tears.
“I’m sorry I compared you to Joan of Arc.”
“I’m sorry I compared you to Miss Havisham.” She paused. “But actually …”
“Oh, you’re fond of that comparison, aren’t you?” George teased softly. “You think that was pretty good, and you don’t want to give it up. I know you.”
“Well …”
“Try these.” He slipped a pair of his clean socks on her feet, and then his extra pair of running shoes. The shoes were too big, but the socks were also too big, and they padded the shoes. When George laced them, they felt like ice skates. Experimentally, Jess walked this way and that, stretching, shaking out her cramped arms and legs. She gazed at the silent, forgiving redwoods.
“I’m going for a walk.” She slipped into the trees, and once again, George followed her.
The trail was well worn, soft and springy underfoot. Tiny creatures sifted through the leaves—glistening beetles, slick black slugs, quick-stepping centipedes.
“So this is the forest of Arden,” George said.
Jess breathed deep. The damp air smelled of cedar and of pine. It was so good to walk upon the ground.
The trail descended, turning gradually like a corkscrew, until they came upon the sheltered hollow for which the park was named. Ferns carpeted the ground, covering every open place between the trees in an undulating sea of green. A redwood lay there in ruins, a natural bridge across a lively stream.
“Watch out,” George warned as Jess climbed up. The tree was relatively slender, no more than ten feet in diameter, and George found the bark slippery as he climbed after her.
“Let’s walk across,” Jess said.
“You’re not used to those shoes.”
“Stop hovering.”
“I can’t,” he confessed. “I wish I could.”
“And stop saving me all the time. It’s hackneyed.”
