“Don’t leave,” cried his mother. “Don’t go.”
The door opened and shut. Mom wept. Fish sat up on his elbow and listened as his dad’s truck started, and then he watched out the window as it pulled out of the driveway beneath the maple tree. It paused there with its glaring brake lights, and Fish willed it to stay, but it turned onto the road and was gone.
Taillights hovering in tree limbs—that is the image that sticks in Fish’s mind whenever he thinks of his father. It wasn’t for keeps that night. Fish’s dad would be in and out for the two weeks before he deployed again. He fixed a gutter on the house. He bought flowers for Mom. But that night did mark the beginning of the end, the crack that widened until it swallowed life. Fish often imagined a braver version of himself, a version that bolted from bed rather than stared out the window, that sprinted barefoot down the stairs and across the cold gravel to beat on the door of the truck. Don’t you leave, Dad, said that braver version of himself. Don’t go.
Fish learned of fragility during those last two weeks. Even his grandfather’s. When his mom begged Fish’s grandpa to talk to her husband, to persuade him to give up the war and stay home, Fish watched his grandpa’s face spark heat, and he took his green cap from his head and wrung it in his hands, and then he waved his hands in the air to wash himself of it all as he retreated across the gravel driveway. His grandpa took the Lord’s name in vain, slammed shut the door of his truck, while Fish’s mom bit her lip on the porch and closed her eyes. Fish knew nobody was supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain. His mom told him as much. But there was something about the way his grandpa spat the words that made them seem not in vain. It was as if he was invoking the Lord’s name, calling upon it, actually asking God to damn some thing, some act or thought, something buried and about to tear loose.
LANTERN ROCK ROSE UP IN THE STARLIGHT. THE MILKY WAY PROVIDED enough light for them to reach the riverbank, hide their bikes in a patch of ferns, and hunker down in the crevasse. The air was cool, but the large split in the boulder held heat.
Fish sat on his heels and leaned against the smooth rock, letting the warmth seep into his back. He looked up at the sky, the way the cedar tree rose into it like a black spire, and how above it the bright smear of the Milky Way looked like sunlight spilling through a very old blanket hung to dry. The stars seemed so near, as if Fish could reach up with a hand and stir them. He knew it was an illusion, a trick. He used to feel so safe in the world, peace felt so permanent. He thought of Bread, how only hours ago he was busy releasing turtles into marsh water. Now everything felt like darkness in the woods feels. A person just can’t see.
Fish heard a crinkling sound and turned to find Bread rummaging through a pocket on his backpack. His hand came out with a Slim Jim. The boy peeled the wrapper, bit the beef stick in its middle, and handed half to Fish while he chewed.
“I figure we might eat supper,” whispered Bread.
Fish took it, and his eyes welled up. He wanted so badly to go home, and not only to his grandpa’s but to his mom’s. He wanted to sit down, have supper with her, and listen to her talk. He wanted his dad back. Fish knew if he tried to speak right now his voice would crack, so he just nodded and took a bite of the Slim Jim.
The two boys sat on their heels and chewed their dinner. They knew each other well enough to know when the other was about to cry. Bread was good enough to not ask him questions.
“Pretty good Slim Jim,” he said, and pulled his knees up inside his arms.
Fish nodded.
“We’re going to make it, Fish.” Fish knew Bread was trying to cheer him. Bread took an exaggerated bite of his beef stick. “Yes sir,” he said, his mouth full, “we’re going to make it, and we’re going to follow this river, and we’re going to build a raft too, and we ain’t gonna get caught.” Bread paused and looked out at the river, then at the cedar towering overhead. “Fish, how big a raft you think we need to carry us and our bikes?”
Fish didn’t answer.
“I bet we need at least five or six cedars, and then we need to find some vine or something to bind ’em together like the Indians did.” He gave Fish a poke with his elbow. “I bet you I’m going to use cedar bark for rope. You think that’d make a good rope, Fish? Fishy? Fish Face? Fischer?”
“You can’t make good rope out of cedar bark,” said Fish.
“Says who?”
“You gotta make rope out of roots. That’s the way the Indians did it.”
Bread nodded.
“So which one of us is gonna dig roots, and which one of us is gonna chop trees?”
Fish hadn’t thought about making a raft, but it was a good idea. The river pushed right up through all that forest, right toward Ironsford. And he liked the thought of building it. It made the sky seem more ordered. Just keep busy, the stars seemed to say. We know.
“You figure we
