zoned to avoid farmers or realtors from cutting it all down. The forest is surrounded on all sides by our town, and the towns of Seven Valleys, New Freedom, Spring Grove, and New Salem. They all have video stores and grocery outlets and pizza shops (and our town even has a Wal-Mart), but you wouldn’t know it while standing inside the forest. Stepping through that tree line is like traveling through time to a Pennsylvania where the Susquehanna Indians still roamed free and the Quakers and Amish were yet to come. At the center, at the dark heart of the forest, was LeHorn’s Hollow, source of central Pennsylvanian ghost stories and legends. Every region has such a place. LeHorn’s Hollow was ours.
An artist friend of mine once visited us from California. Tara and I took him for a walk through the woods, maybe half a mile inside, and he said something that has always stuck with me. He said that our woods felt different. I’d scoffed at the time, reminding him that his own state had the majestic redwood forests (Tara and I had spent part of our honeymoon walking amongst the coastal redwoods, and I’d wanted to live there ever since). But he’d insisted that our small patch of woods was different.
He said they felt primordial.
After Big Steve finished watering the yard, he tugged me toward the alley, his ears perked up and tongue lolling in hopeful anticipation.
“You want to go for a walk in the woods? You want to sniff for some bunnies?”
He wagged his tail with enthusiastic confirmation.
“Come on, then.”
He put his nose to the ground and led me forward. Shelly Carpenter jogged by as we reached the edge of the alley.
“Hi Adam,” she panted, running in place. “Hi Stevie!”
Big Steve wagged the tip of his tail and darted between my legs.
“Oh, come on, Stevie. Don’t be shy! You know me.”
Big Steve’s tail thumped harder, confirming that yes, he did indeed know her, but he shrank farther away.
Shelly laughed. “He’s such a fraidy cat.”
“Yeah. Runs from his own shadow. Out for your morning jog?”
“You know it. Isn’t it beautiful today?”
Her thin T-shirt was damp with sweat, and it clung to her bouncing breasts, revealing perfection. Her pert nipples strained against the fabric, hinting at the dark areolas beneath. Before she could catch me leering, I looked down. Mistake. Her gray sweatpants had ridden up, hugging her crotch like a second skin.
I glanced back up. Shelly was staring at me.
“You okay, Adam?”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Sure. I was just thinking about my deadline.”
“You’re always daydreaming.”
“That’s the way it is with writers.”
“How’s the next book coming?”
“Good.” I smiled, and bent down to pet Big Steve. Mistake number two. My face was inches from her groin. I imagined that I could smell her sweat— and something else. Something intoxicating. The scent of a woman.
What the hell was wrong with me?
She placed a hand on her hip and arched her back. “What’s it going to be?”
I jumped. “W-what?”
“The book.” Her breasts bounced up and down as she began jogging in place again. “What’s it going to be about?”
“I’m not sure yet, actually. Still working it out in my head. But it’s going to be big.”
“Well, I’d better let you get back to work, then. See you. Tell Tara that I said hi.”
“Okay. Will do. See you later.”
She raised her hand and waved, then blew Big Steve a kiss. We stared after her as she jogged down the alley and crossed over into the park. I watched her perfect ass moving beneath her sweat pants. Then she vanished from sight. The next time I saw that ass, she was bent over a log and the hairy man was grinding his hips behind her.
Big Steve panted, then turned around and licked his balls.
I knew how he felt. My erection strained against my jeans.
I took a deep breath, trying to stave off the guilt that welled up inside me. I’d never cheated on Tara, but the opportunities were there. Not dozens of them; at least, not yet. But there were several women who’d brought bourbon and crotchless panties to my book signings, and asked me to sign their breasts with magic marker. They sent me emails telling me how much my writing turned them on. Genre groupies. It was flattering and tempting and great for selling books. But it was surprising too— especially considering my modest success. I often wondered if it would get worse the bigger I got.
The thing I was most afraid of was myself— my own libido.
But I’d never done anything. And my overreaction to Shelly’s workout attire left me feeling puzzled and guilty.
At the time, I dismissed it. Just something in the air.
I know now how right I was.
Big Steve strained against his leash, urging me forward. We crossed the alley and walked onto the field, heading in the same general direction that Shelly had gone. Steve put his nose to the ground, catching a scent.
In the branches of the oak tree, two squirrels began humping away, making babies. I wondered if Tara and I would ever have a baby. Then I thought of the miscarriage. Sadness welled up inside me.
Steve tugged at the leash, chasing the bad memories away like the good dog that he was. The wet grass soaked my shoes and his paws. I took us around the playground. It wouldn’t do to have the neighborhood children come flying down the slide and land in a pile of dog shit. As if reading my mind, Big Steve dutifully dropped a pile in the grass. Then we moved on. Paul Legerski’s black Chevy Suburban roared down the alley. He blew the horn and I waved. My next-door neighbor, Mike, started his lawnmower. It sputtered, stalled, and then sputtered again. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking out their springtime return from southern climates. But beneath it all there was another sound. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. But Big Steve’s ears were up and his head cocked. He’d heard it too.
As we stood there, it came again— a high, melodic piping. It sounded like a flute. Just a few short, random notes, and then they faded away on the breeze and weren’t repeated. I looked around to see if Shelly had heard it, but she was gone, as if the woods had swallowed her up.
In a way, I guess that’s what happened.
The musical piping drifted toward us again.
Big Steve planted his feet, raised his hackles, and growled. I tugged the leash, but he refused to budge.
“Come on,” I said. “It’s nothing. Just some kid practicing for the school band.”
It occurred to me that it was Monday morning, and all the kids were in school. Then Steve’s haunches sagged and he returned to normal, nose to the ground and tail wagging with excitement over every new scent.
The narrow trail leading into the woods was hidden between two big maple trees. I don’t know who made it, kids or deer, but Big Steve and I used it every day. Dead leaves crunched under our feet as we slipped into the forest, while new leaves budded on the branches above us. I stopped to light up a cigarette while Big Steve nosed around a mossy stump. I inhaled, stared up into the leafy canopy over our heads, and noticed how much darker it was, even just inside the tree line.
Primordial, I thought.
I shivered. The sun’s rays didn’t reach here. There was no warmth inside the forest— only shadows.
The woods were quiet at first, but then came to life. Birds sang and squirrels played in the boughs above us. A plane passed overhead, invisible beyond the treetops. The winding path sloped steadily downward. We picked our way through clinging vines and thorns, and I spotted some raspberry bushes, which gave me something to look forward to when summer arrived. Blue tinted moss clung to the squat gray stones that thrust up from the forest floor like dinosaur skeletons. And then there were the trees themselves— tall, stern, and proud.
I shivered again. Stepping over a fallen log, I wondered again who’d made the path, and who used it other than Big Steve and myself. The most we’d ever gone was a mile into the forest, but the path continued on past
