Chasing Redbird (16 page)

I felt guilty when I thought about Uncle Nate. I kept thinking that if I'd never been born, Rose wouldn't have caught whooping cough and Aunt Jessie wouldn't have been scared by a snake and crawled into a drawer, and Uncle Nate wouldn't be alone, chasing after his Redbird day and night, and he wouldn't ever need another sweetheart. I wanted to put Time on a big reel and wind it back so that the three of them could be together again. Whenever I imagined this, I'd think maybe I could just snip me out of it, but I'd keep seeing myself there with Rose and Uncle Nate and Aunt Jessie, and I didn't want to snip myself out of it. I wanted to be there, and I wanted to be here now, and I didn't want to be erased.

Then I'd think,
Well, what am I doing up here in the woods?
Had I erased myself from my family, down there in the farm far below? I didn't have a good answer for that, but I had the eerie feeling that I wasn't erasing Zinny; I was looking for her—as if I was invisible, but Zinny was out there somewhere. Other times, I thought I was looking for Rose, looking for Aunt Jessie, and they'd be there on the trail, waiting for me.

Once, as I crawled into my sleeping bag, I saw a flicker of reddish orange, and I sat still, wanting to chase it, but forcing myself not to. Stealthily, a fox moved into the clearing and stared at me, poised and alert on slender black legs. Bushy rust-colored fur surrounded a puff of white at its throat, and pointed ears stood erect, listening intently. It studied me, narrowing its eyes as if it knew me, and then it vanished.

I was left sitting there thinking about ants, who would be eaten by grasshoppers, and grasshoppers who would be eaten by birds, who might, in turn, be eaten by foxes, who might then be eaten by—. Nothing was safe; everything was in danger of being gobbled up by something else. Even me—I could be gobbled up too, like baby Rose and Aunt Jessie.

One night I dreamed that I was running through a maze with high green hedges, chasing a bumblebee as big as a bird. Behind me, panting, lurched a huge tiger carrying a stick in his brilliant white teeth.

It was the morning after this dream that I found the cup amid the cans of beans. I hadn't brought a cup, or so I thought, but there it was. The next day, a can opener. Two days later I found the soap. I hadn't brought soap, had I? I was a bit worried about my brain.

On the ninth day, I reached Sleepy Bear Ridge. This portion of the trail had been well carved: a solid, flat plateau about two feet wide, etched into the side of the hill. A rocky, grassy stretch rose to the left, and there, resting on the top of the ridge was a black rock which resembled a bear curled on its side. Below the trail, the hill was banked with tall larch trees, in small groups, with clearings in between. There were no stones on the trail, and there had probably never been stones here. The natural drainage of the land made this a dry, secure path. All I needed to do here was to clear some of the more overgrown sections.

From the top of the bear-shaped rock, I had a terrific view down over the mountainside and larch groves, and it was from this point that I spotted the roof of a small cabin below the trail. It was the first dwelling of any kind I'd seen so near the trail, and I suspected it was abandoned.

At the far end of this curved portion of the trail, about a mile away, the path slid into deep, dark trees, eerie and forbidding. On the map, this new area was marked as Spook Hollow. Spook Hollow would have to wait, for I was going home the next day.

I
had planned to clear part of the trail before heading home on the tenth day, but when I awoke just before sunrise, it was raining. This was all the excuse I needed to leave straight away, and once I'd made that decision, I was surprised at how eager I was to go home.

I secured my things beneath the tarp, taking with me only my backpack and food sack, and set off down the trail. In some ways it seemed that time had raced by—already it was the tenth day, already I was heading home—but in other ways it seemed that I'd been gone for months. I kept trying to remember what everyone looked like, and to guess how they'd react when they saw me. How happy they'd be to see me again, safe and sound, not shriveled from hunger or mauled by a bear.

When I had agreed to come home every ten days, I imagined that I would dash in, grace them with my presence for a few minutes, shovel more food in my pack, and race back to my camp. Now, as I walked proudly down my trail, crossing the old railroad, I thought I might spend the whole day at home, maybe even the night. I'd do it as a favor to my family, I told myself, so that they wouldn't feel too entirely miserable at my dashing in and out as if I couldn't stand to be there. But really it would be a favor to me: I wanted to be there.

No sooner had I decided to stay the night than I had doubts. They would think I was homesick. Maybe they were happier with me gone, anyway; maybe they would be annoyed if I came back and got in everyone's way.

As I started across Baby Toe Ridge, I saw someone ahead of me on the trail. It was Jake Boone with a backpack slung over his shoulder. When he turned off the trail to head down the hillside, I called to him. He practically jumped out of his skin.

“Zinny? What the heck—?”

I nearly dissolved into a puddle at the sound of a human voice. “What exactly are you doing up here, Jake?”

“Cripes—”

“Have you been spying on me?”

“Cripes—”

“You were, weren't you? You brought the cup and the soap and the can opener, didn't you?” Everything was coming out all wrong. I didn't want to sound like this.

“Cripes—”

“Can't you say anything besides ‘Cripes'? What do you think you're doing, spying on me like that?”

“Cri—Zinny, I don't exactly call it spying. I was watching over you—”

“I don't need any watching over.” Why were these words coming out of my mouth? Part of me was happy that he'd wanted to protect me, and that he'd brought me things I'd forgotten, but another part of me was all blown up like a toad. I'd wanted to do this by myself. I needed to. I didn't know why, either, and that made me even madder. I zapped him again: “And where were you sneaking off to just now?”

“Cripes. Down there. It's a shortcut to an old dirt road where I left the truck.”

“Well, go on then. Who's stopping you?”

“Come on, I'll give you a lift.”

“No thanks. I'm going down the trail.
My
trail.”

“You're as hard as a stone, Zinny Taylor.” Then he nearly knocked me off my feet by yanking me toward him. He seemed so tall all of a sudden. I could smell pine on his shirt, and little beads of sweat were trickling down his neck.

My mouth stopped yapping. I was going to stand there forever and I would never speak again and time would go on and on and on. Jake put one soft hand on each side of my face and leaned down and placed a kiss on my mouth. Right there on my
lips
. I nearly vaporized into the atmosphere. Before I could blink, though, he stepped back and said, “Might as well give you something to really get in a duck fit about!” And as I stood there like a stone, he sauntered off down the hill.

When I regained my senses, I was so flustered I didn't know what to do. “You
worm
!” I called. “You—you—
complete worm
!” Really. Sometimes I am such a jerk. He wasn't a worm at all. I hoped he hadn't heard me.

I took off across Baby Toe Ridge and ran down the trail, through Crow Hollow, and on through the first part of Maiden's Walk. But I stopped short when I came to the fenced meadow, where I had cut the barbed wire and laid the stones. “Cripes!” I said. Someone had repaired the barbed wire and hung a sign on it: NO TRESPASSING!

The stones still lay across the meadow, and there was no sign of anyone or of any animals. My wire cutters were miles back at the camp. It was easy enough to get through the fence by stretching the wires apart, but I'd have to make a more permanent arrangement. I'd have to cut them again. No trespassing? The owners obviously didn't know about the public right-of-way. I could no longer remember whether it was true about the trail being a public right-of-way, or whether I'd made that up, but that seemed of little importance.

Farther down the trail, I checked the place where I'd found the medallion and where I'd later buried the ring. The hole was still empty.

On down the trail I went until there it was: the farm, as if newly planted for my eyes only. That big wonderful barn, with its funny lopsided doors. That green grass, those stately trees. That sweet, sweet house sitting by itself in the clearing, with the tall oak leaning toward my bedroom window. It was a beautiful landscape, a magnificent miniature world.

It was early yet, and so I stopped at the creek to look for Poke. I dug up a few worms, and, as if in answer to my offering, Poke emerged from beneath an overhanging rock, lifting his head toward me tentatively. I laid the worms on a leaf and waited. Inch by inch, Poke crept up the bank, and behind him followed another, smaller turtle.

I went on up to the house, wondering why I was suddenly so nervous, why I felt like a stranger trespassing. The house was unusually quiet. Were they expecting me? Were they planning a surprise?

I crossed the porch and entered the kitchen. No one in sight, no sounds of anyone. The door to Uncle Nate's was closed. Upstairs, my parents' bedroom was empty. The boys' door was open, and inside, the three of them were curled up, sound asleep. Were they pretending? I touched Ben's foot, which was sticking out beneath his blanket. He murmured and kicked, as if shaking off a fly. In my room, not only were my sisters asleep, but someone was in my bed. A tousled head of brown hair rested on my pillow.

It was not exactly the homecoming I had hoped for.

W
hen I sat on the edge of Bonnie's bed, she opened her eyes, blinked sleepily, and said, “Oh, hi.”

“Where are Mom and Dad?” I asked.

“Mm? Aren't they here? Maybe Dad's at work. He had an emergency or something, I think. Mom's probably watching Uncle Nate.”

“Why?”

She yawned. “I'm not hardly half awake, Zinny Don't you know about Uncle Nate?”

“Know what?”

“He hurt himself—guess how.”

I felt cold, afraid. “How?”

“Doing the boogie-woogie.”

“Is he here? Is he okay?”

“Of course he's here, Zinny. He told Dad he'd shoot himself before he'd go to a hospital.”

“I've got to see him,” I said. “By the way, who's in my bed?”

“Shh. You'll wake her. That's Junie.”

I hadn't the vaguest idea who Junie was, but she sure looked comfortable. I had another one of those odd feelings—maybe that was Zinny in the bed, and I was someone else. It gave me the creeps.

Downstairs, I went through to Uncle Nate's and inched open his bedroom door. Mom was dozing in a chair near his bed, and Uncle Nate lay flat on his back, wide awake, clutching his stick. I didn't like to see him like that, confined to his bed.

“Shh,” he said, but Mom had already heard me.