Raft of Stars

spaghetti noodles and a bag of rice. There were two cans of soup, one of peaches, a jar of olives. It reminded Cal of camping food, the sort of thing that can be opened and heated. It reminded him of his own cooking. Beyond the few canned items, the cupboards were empty. There was fruit on the counter, a loaf of bread. Tiffany moved quickly with her back to him, scooping coffee as he told her why he’d come. He explained about the boys, and how he and Teddy were headed after them. “Into the woods,” he said. Her spoon paused only once, when he mentioned the shooting, and then Cal paused too when he remembered the sight of Jack Breadwin in that kitchen. He stopped talking, his thoughts turning to the forest, the enormity of it, the task at hand. Tiffany wrung a kitchen rag beneath the faucet and wiped the counter clean, twice. The coffee pot sputtered and finished brewing. The kitchen felt warm, with the pot of coffee full and black. He looked at her back, her waist, the belt loops of her jeans. He couldn’t help imagining coming home to her and embracing her waist, smelling her, saying hello, a woman smiling back at him. He forced his eyes to the floor.

“Tiff, I just stopped by to ask if you would please watch my dog.”

Tiffany nodded and began pouring two mugs of coffee. Cal stood and took a step toward her to receive one. Without hearing him, Tiffany turned flat up against him, nearly spilling the coffee held up between their faces. She was shorter than he was, but not by much. Cal forgot himself. Tiffany smelled like flowers, or candy. Cal couldn’t put his finger on it. She had a beautiful face. Cal swallowed and took the dripping mugs by their rims and set them on the table.

“So, can you watch him, then?” Cal asked, the words dry in his mouth as he wiped a small spill with his sleeve.

“Sure,” she said. “Cal?”

He looked at her.

She looked at him, and then shook her head.

“It’s good to have you over,” she said. “I’ll take good care of your dog.”

Cal thanked her and told Jacks to stay and walked to the door. The light outside was purple now. Soon it’d be pink, and the sun would rise above the brown fields surrounding Claypot. Cal felt Tiffany’s hand inside his elbow. She handed him a mug.

“Take it with you,” she said. “Do good.”

“Thanks,” he said, and smiled at her. “And thanks for the coffee.” He walked down the steps and called back from his truck, “And thanks for watching Jacks!” She grinned and waved at him, crossed her arms over her chest, and then she stooped to snatch Jacks’ collar to keep him inside.

As Cal drove back to Teddy’s, he found his mind still in that small kitchen. The smell of coffee, the smell of a woman, and then it came to him. Lavender. Tiffany Robins smells like lavender. He smiled at the pink light over the fields and woods. Drove with his hands loose on the wheel. He rubbed his eyes and face and cursed himself, sat upright in his cab. He was sheriff again. Two scared boys about to lose themselves in a forest were having a very bad time.

“Sit tight, fellas,” Cal said, pushing the wheel through a gravel turn. “Don’t run.”

Six

“THIS IS KIND OF A GOOD TIME!” SAID BREAD. HE AND FISH knelt in the morning sun next to the riverbank with their supplies laid out on a tarp. The dew on the grass soaked the knees of Fish’s jeans, but it didn’t bother him. It couldn’t. They’d need to get used to discomforts from here on out—the damp and dirt, maybe hunger too—they were in the wild. It surprised Fish how unshaken Bread seemed this morning after what happened the night before. But then, Fish felt less shaken too. Here they were at their favorite spot on the river, a whole mess of bushcrafting supplies before them, and they were going to build a raft and name it and take it downriver with poles. The water slid between islands and toppled over boulders. A finch sat in a tree and watched, cocked its small eye toward the boys. Yesterday was a dream. Today was a good time. They could do this.

“Okay,” said Fish, “which of us is going to carry the barlow?”

Bread pursed his lips and studied the pocketknife. In their rush to leave last night, their gear became what Fish’s grandpa would have called lopsided. First on the agenda this morning, after waking amid boulders and stumbling to the river to pee in the rapids, was fixing that lopsidedness. It’s something Fish’s grandpa used to do when he took him hunting or fishing in these forests. When one of them lost too many lures or ate up his reserves of jerky, his grandpa would take a break on a stump somewhere and lay his vest and pack on the ground. Last thing you want in the bush, he’d say, pushing back the brim of his green cap, is lopsided supplies. Fish enjoyed the process. It meant a break from hiking. It meant he could take the brass cartridges out of his rifle, count them, and put them back in again. It usually meant he’d get more of his grandpa’s jerky. It’s poor form, his grandpa explained, for one guy to have all of one thing and the other to have all of another thing. If one guy has all the jerky and loses his pack, then nobody has any jerky. Gotta divvy it up, and re-divvy it. Same with lures and matches and shot shells. How many you got left?

The boys had already divided the matches. They each had ten, and even tore the striker in half to share it. They each had two fishing lures, red and white bobbers, collapsible poles, two Slim Jims, one can of Bumble Bee