My Abandonment (3 page)

The boy turns to look and when he turns back I am already in the shadows gone, silent as I slip between the trees still thinking of him. Zachary. How long did we talk? Five minutes? He was only a boy, maybe ten, so much younger than me but sometimes it is all right or easier to be friends with a boy who is not your age. We had talked like we were friends, about his camera and Nameless and about Randy.

"Thanks, Randy," I say, whispering into the hole in his stomach. "Zachary," I say.

The round hole in Randy's stomach is not wide. It can be covered by my fingertip, which is how I hold him even though almost nothing would get inside him and nothing would fall out. Two things I have put in there: a small shiny stone that I found in the stream and a scrap of paper rolled up tight where I have written a secret secret in case I ever forget it. You would have to cut Randy open to get anything out of him.

You could cut him on the seam between white side and his painted side that shows his muscles and organs like his skin is torn off. Heart, liver, kidney, lungs. Horses' bodies are not the same as humans' but still I can learn from the painted side as I have the same organs inside my body. So do you. The white side has red dots with black numbers by them, where I practice my arithmetic. Add this and this, Father says, pointing on Randy's body, now take this away from that, now multiply these. There are one hundred and fourteen numbers and the ones closest to Randy's mouth are 19 and 20 like he is saying them. The numbers around his eye are 7, 8, 9, 10, 12. The number 11 is right on his eyeball so anything he'd see on that side has a dot and that number like looking through a glass window with writing on it. Only that makes things backward but 11 is the same both ways. Father gave Randy to me and when I first got him he smelled like a chemical and paint. Now he smells like nothing at all so maybe he smells like me. I touch my tongue to him and he tastes like salt from my hands.

I've made it all the way back deep into the forest park without even paying attention since my bare feet know the way so well and my mind has been thinking about other things. Animals might have passed close by me and thought I was sleepwalking.

Listening for my own breath which I cannot hear I hear shouting instead. Men's voices from the camp. I spin and ease closer with now the sun down and not any shadows so it's easy to get close. Around the fire I don't see Nameless or even Richard, just a bunch of men eating and drinking things and smoking cigarettes with their dogs sleeping by the fire whose ears raise up and then droop down since the smoke is in their noses and they can't tell where or who or even if I'm out here.

***

The post office is just over the St. Johns Bridge, on Ivanhoe Street. I rush to our box and lean my eye to the little window and there is one envelope inside. It's Father's check that the government sends him every month for being in a war. He opens the envelope, looks at the check, then puts it back in the envelope and folds it and puts it in his front pocket.

Outside again we pass the flea market where Father bought his frame pack, then Burgerville and Dad's Restaurant which Father won't take me to even as a joke. A pointed blue sign says
WELCOME TO HISTORIC ST. JOHNS ESTABLISHED IN 1847
. St. Johns is a neighborhood, not a city. It's in the city of Portland, in the state of Oregon, in the country of the United States of America. It's summer. The year is 1999. Up Lombard at the theater the sign says
BLAIR WITCH PROJECT
.

"Is that about witches?" I say.

"We'll never know," Father says. He's whistling. He has his elbows bent and his hands hooked inside the black straps of his pack.

As we go we put some of our garbage in a trash can when no one is looking and put some in another as we walk further down the street. It is a lot happening at once when we go to the city. Signs blink. A bus leans when turning a corner. I hurry past a black dog tied to a parking meter. We pass a homeless man with a shopping cart full of things. I push the crosswalk button and the man in the sign blinks and we cross the street. Two girls younger than me coast by on bicycles. One is pink, the other yellow. I do not know how to ride a bicycle since we have no place to keep one and since Father says I'd get too far away. He is the tallest person in the city. He looks in the window at the Salvation Army where we sometimes get our clothes and we keep on, past Urban Soul Tattoo.

"Are there really witches?" I say.

"I've never met one," Father says.

We don't go into the Tulip Bakery. Sometimes there are children in the playground across the street but not today since we're earlier than usual or it's a different day. Already I can see the red brick library with its white pillars. We cross again, close to the school, then go up the steps.

Inside there's a shiny desk. The children's books are to the right and all the tables and chairs on that side are smaller.

"Hello," says the librarian. "My best customers."

"So much to read," Father says.

"Hello," I say. "It's me, Caroline."

"Enough," Father says, since I'm not supposed to tell strangers my name. He leads me deeper into all the books.

Once I've gotten through the encyclopedias all these books will be easy and make sense for me. All the books of the library, filling all the shelves and shelves. The hinges of books are called spines and are all different colors. I see the spines of the encyclopedias, all the letters I don't have but that we'll get when I need them. My library card is in the front pocket of my city pants. Usually I don't check anything out. Father usually renews books he already has.

The librarian is typing with her back toward us, her dark hair is braided like my hair is braided and her cardigan sweater is bright blue. She is a quiet lady. She smiles when she sees us, so she is no stranger. She loves everyone who reads books. Every time she looks at me I can feel it and it's not like sometimes with some people. With her she's thinking the best thoughts and liking me. While I am looking at the spines of all the books she passes close behind me and touches my back up high with the flat of her hand. She has probably read every book in the library.

"Caroline," Father says. "Let's go."

"Goodbye," the librarian says. "See you soon, I hope."

At the Safeway, Father takes the check out of his pocket and writes on the back of it and then puts it in another envelope and feeds it into the wall of the ATM. Next the money comes out and he folds it and puts it in his pocket.

The lights hum, inside Safeway, up by the voices that call out of speakers. They are an unhealthy kind of light to be under and so we hurry. Father's in the bathroom by the bakery department, shaving, and I'm buying what we need by the time he's done.

Outside, the sun has shifted around so it can be in our faces both ways, coming and going. On the way home it's pulling me back. A car passes us and I pretend I'm inside it and I close my eyes and take ten steps. I can hardly see how far the car has gone, slipping away. I'd be all the way ahead, but slow is not always bad. Father says a car is an anchor. He says machines cause as many problems as they solve.

The St. Johns Bridge has two tall green towers with two black points on top of each one with red lights at the very tips. For planes to see or maybe for lightning. It's always windy here, even on still days. Only some of the bridge is over the river and down below the remains of old piers stick like whiskers through the dark water. Father shaves in the summer and grows a beard in the winter. Bright red cuts on his neck from the razor, he walks on the side facing the traffic and I am along the rail, looking down at the rusty railroad bridge that can lift for boats and further to all the other bridges of the city to my left. The tall buildings look so small from here, five miles away.

We squint into the sun. A dog barks, so close to my ears, in the back of a truck speeding past. I look back behind us where airplanes slide in and rise up from the airport. I've never been on an airplane, not that I can remember. Further than the airport there are mountains. Mount Hood in snow a little to the right, and Mount St. Helens, a volcano on the left. They are too far to walk to. If we had a car we could drive to them but we will never have a car.

The bridge shakes and trembles beneath my feet. Halfway across is almost halfway home. The trees are a solid changing green and as you come closer they break apart and separate so you can see how it works. Looking up to the left I can see all the green trees of the forest park and can guess where our home is, where someone in the lookout could see us now. Someone could walk into our house if they could find it and we couldn't do anything about it. At least Randy is with me, and Father, who could make another house any time or place.

We're almost to the forest park when I see the orange spots against the green trees.

"What are those orange men doing?" I say.

"Who?" Father squints. "Criminals," he says.

"What are they doing?"

"Whatever those police say. You see those two men? And that white truck has dogs in it, so if any of the criminals tries to run away they let the dogs loose to catch them."

"How many dogs?" I squint to see the truck better but it is far away.

"Those men have to clean up all along the highway," Father says, "and cut back the tall grass since they did something wrong and got caught."

"They did a crime," I say. "Criminals."

"Exactly," Father says.

"Like what?"

"Let's walk. Don't worry about them, Caroline. We have ourselves to worry about, and that's plenty."

The red spots on his neck have dried and I reach up and brush them off.

"Thank you, Caroline," he says.

"Shaver," I say.

Father is strict. He has to be strict. That doesn't mean he knows everything I do or think. There are all kinds of things he's taught me and ways I've taught myself and things I've learned. There's the animals and then there's sounds and actions and feelings that not even the trees or plants are making. I am the one who knows about food in the forest park, the best places for blackberries and when the morels are up I know where to find them and the mushroom harvests are maybe when we eat best. There are ferns you can also eat and of course the things I grow. Once I found a patch of mint growing wild by just the smell and also wild ginger but those are more flavors than food.

Sometimes a stone will roll up a hill. Or a stone will leap in the air and rap against another stone or a tree like he is angry at them. I have seen this happen. I have seen a fallen tree slowly right itself and its dead branches will sprout leaves.

One alone time I hear a noise and see Father behind a bush, watching me which is not what he is supposed to be doing. I can use his tricks against him, though. I can be more patient than him, wait for his attention to drift. I do things he doesn't know about and I have places where he's never been.

I have my own lookout all covered in branches, high off the ground. I climb into it and rest on my back. The sound of the wind is wonderful and always changing. The airplanes fly over with their sound. They leap from space to space between the trees. I hear the dogs coming and turn over on my stomach.

They bite at each others' shoulders and get snarled up and plow sideways into the bushes but let loose so they don't fall behind and can catch up. I think the head dog is a girl dog, brown and without a collar even if some of the dogs have collars and Lala just keeps running and running and the other dogs, some of them might be coyotes but Father says that's impossible even if there are coyotes in the forest park. The other dogs are all shapes and sizes and all different colors. There are usually more than ten but not twenty and today almost twenty. They follow Lala since they think she knows something or is going somewhere just by the way she runs and the truth is I think is that it's just that she likes to run so much and she's happy. I know how she feels.

Even after they are gone the bushes are still snapping back. I can still hear the sound of snarling and panting and breaking sticks.

Now Father comes walking silently through the trees, a brown paper bag in his hand. Even from up high he looks tall. He wears his city clothes. His hair is shiny, wet down and his face is smooth. I duck down before he looks behind him or checks the sky like he does. I am down on the ground behind him and he doesn't hear. I follow.

He looks all around again before he steps out of the forest and onto the street, the sidewalk. His steps are long. I am after him. Still barefoot I'm careful, one block almost away and I'm shivering even though the sun is not quite down and it's warm. I can feel people in the houses looking out and the people in the cars driving by and I don't know what Father would say if I catch up or if he looks back. I'm afraid. My breath is hard. I turn and race back to the forest park, the safe dark shadows of the trees stretching out to meet me. Back inside I breathe slow, easier. I am walking deeper and I am thinking it's fine if Father has secrets since I have secrets. We trust. And I am also thinking that it is not okay to have a secret where he leaves me behind even if I'm being alone.

I can now run for five minutes without slowing at all. I practice. With only Randy in my hand I leap over stumps, ferns, check my watch, circle back, practice being able to breathe after all that without making a sound.

The hinged back of a book. Strength of character or strength of willpower. A sharp or bony projection such as found on a porcupine.

***

The sunlight is still not down to us and the ground is damp and cool. Father's red frame pack is full and the only thing in my pack is Randy.

"Wear shoes," Father says.

"Why?"

"They don't have to know everything about the way we are," he says. "Let's go."

We do not walk in a straight line to the men's camp. We take a different path every time so we don't wear down a trail and lead people to us.

As we walk he says the kind of thing he always says: "You notice how there are no women there at night, no girls who sleep there, how you've never seen a baby there. That's because it's too dangerous, because the men can't be trusted. You notice how they move their camp all the time and how only the rangers pick up after them. They break into the hikers' cars in the parking lot and steal things and that draws plenty of attention, you know. Without the men's camp, our lives would be easier, here."