I get the tools quickly and go, blinking with relief in the burning sun. I lock the tool shed. You stay in there, Daddy. You too, Little Teddy. There is no place for you out here.
I write everything in the book very clearly. It’s not the same book, obviously. I keep my diary of broken things in an old textbook of Lauren’s. I write on top of the maps.
Mouse in kitchen is back, I write carefully in the pale blue sea off the coast of Papua New Guinea. Bathroom sink – faucet drips. Bible fell off table again?!?!? Why? Table legs uneven?!?!?!
And so on. The hinges on the bedroom door are squeaking; they need oil. A sheet of plywood on one of the living-room windows is loose and needs nailing down. A couple shingles have come off the roof. It’s raccoons; they’re bad for shingle. But I like their small, clever black hands.
I do what I can now, and the rest I’ll get to this week. I have to be both Mommy and Daddy for Lauren. I like repairing the house, fixing holes as if I’m making it watertight. Nothing gets in or out without my permission.
The chocolate-chip pancakes are ready just as Lauren is waking. Personally I find pancakes a waste of time, like eating pieces of hot washcloth. But she loves them.
I say, ‘Wash up first. I’ve been working outside and you’ve been pedalling that bicycle with your hands.’ She’s so smart. She lies on her tummy on the seat and her arms go a-whirring. Lauren doesn’t let anything get in her way.
‘It’s easier with my hands,’ she says.
I kiss her. ‘I know. And you go so fast, these days.’
We wash our hands at the kitchen sink, getting right under the nails with the brush.
Lauren is quiet as she eats. Yesterday was bad; she exhausted herself with anger. She goes back tomorrow and the prospect of her absence makes us both very gloomy. ‘We can do anything you like today,’ I say without thinking.
Her attention sharpens. ‘I want to go camping.’
I feel the hot stroke of helplessness. We can’t go camping. Lauren knows that. Why does she always have to push me? Always tugging, nagging like one of those little dogs at the heels of a bull. No wonder I get mad.
But sorrow tugs at me too. It is unfair. So many kids get to go to the woods and make fires and camp and so on. It’s not even special for them. Maybe all the stuff with the Murderer has made me sad, maybe it’s because I’m tired of the house, too, but I say, ‘Sure. Let’s go camping. We leave at dusk.’
‘Really? Truly, Dad?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I said anything you like, right?’
Happiness shines out of her.
I put some supplies in a backpack. Flashlight, blanket, tarpaulin, energy bars, bottled water, toilet paper. Behind me I hear the dry sound of skirts rustling. Oh no. I squeeze my eyes closed really tight.
Her hand is like cold clay on the back of my neck. Don’t let anyone see who you are, Mommy says.
‘I won’t,’ I say. ‘I just want to give Lauren a little treat. Only this once, I swear. I’ll make sure she never wants to go again.’
You need to move them.
The sun falls slowly into the treeline. I watch through the western peephole that faces the forest. When the light is almost gone I shoulder the backpack and turn out the lights.
‘Time to go,’ I say. ‘Pens and crayons, please.’
She counts them into my hand one by one, and I put them away. They are all accounted for.
‘Do you need a drink of water before we go? Bathroom? Last chance.’
She shakes her head. I can almost see the excitement coming off her like a series of little explosions.
‘You have to let me carry you.’ The pink bicycle will be useless on the forest floor.
She says, ‘Whatever.’
We go out the back door and I lock it after us. I check the street carefully before we come out from the shadow of the house. The road is empty. Midges dance around the buzzing yellow streetlight. The neighbouring house stares with its newsprint eyes. Further down the block it’s a different story. Sashes are pulled up, spilling noise and warm light. I catch the distant tone of a piano, the faint scent of pork chops cooking.
‘We could go knock on a door,’ Lauren says. ‘Say hi. Maybe they’d ask us to stay for supper.’
‘I thought you wanted to go camping?’ I say. ‘Come on, kitten.’
We turn away to where the trees are outlined against the purple sky. We duck through the wooden gate and here we are, among them. The flashlight casts a wide bloodless beam on the trail.
All signs of the city are soon behind us. We are enclosed by the forest. It is waking. The dark air is filled with hoots, clicks and song. Frogs, cicadas, bats. Lauren shivers and I feel her wonder. I love having her so close to me. I can’t recall the last time she let me carry her like this without a fight. She hates to be helpless.
‘What do you do if someone comes by?’ I ask her again.
‘I stay quiet and let you do the talking,’ she replies. ‘What’s that stink?’
‘Skunk,’ I say. The animal wanders alongside us on the path for a time, curious, perhaps. Then it ambles off into the wooded dark and the scent fades.
We don’t go far, about a mile. A couple hundred feet off the path there’s the clearing. It’s hidden by boulders and thick scrub and you have to know how to find it. I know the way well. This is where the gods live.
The scent of cedar and wild thyme is in the air, as strong as wine. But the trees that circle the clearing aren’t cedar or fir. They are pale slender ghosts.
‘Dad,’ Lauren says in a whisper. ‘Why are the trees white?’
‘They’re
