The World More Full of Weeping (5 page)

As they walked, he wondered if he would have been able
to find his way out without her help.

They were no longer holding hands, and as they walked,
Brian picked a few wildflowers, careful to be looking away
from her when she slowed.

He was surprised that such a short walk — no more than
a few minutes — brought them to the tree line between the
forest and the fields. He would have thought they were
miles away.

“Did you want to come in with me?” he asked, desperate
for something to breach the silence between them. “You
could probably stay for dinner.”

She shook her head, but she smiled. “I should probably
be getting back, too.”

“Okay,” he said, suddenly unsure of himself, not wanting
to leave her.

“But you'll come tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Meet you right here?”

She smiled.

He turned away, started to walk, then turned back
jerkily. “Here,” he said, his face reddening as he extended
the flowers to her. “These are for you.”

She took them with a smile and a warm glow in her
eyes. As she smelled them, he turned away, walking briskly
across the field toward his father's shop.

He didn't look back.

His thoughts were filled with excuses, possible scenarios
he could use to explain to his father how late he was. It
never occurred to Brian to just tell him the truth. He didn't
know why.

It didn't matter anyway. When he got to the shop, his
father was deep in his work, his eyes tight on the tools but
his mind far away.

It was as if he hadn't even noticed his son had been
gone.

“You don't get out there much, do you?”

Jeff wasn't startled by John Joseph's voice beside him:
the older man had crossed the back lawn without a sound,
but Jeff had heard the screen door close.

When he turned toward him, John offered him a mug. “I
took a little liberty with the bottle on your counter.”

The steam above the mug smelled of coffee and
Jameson's. “Thanks.”

They both turned their attention to the forest. It was
darker now, and Jeff could hear voices coming gradually
closer to his farm.

“They'll be coming to get their night gear,” John said.
“Dean'll probably have the truck stop at the back first, get
them set up before he comes back here.”

Jeff nodded, not really listening, and took a sip of his
coffee. “That's nice,” he said, as it warmed him all the way
down. “Thanks.”

“You don't, do you?” John said, not looking away from
the dark forest.

“What?”

“Go out in the woods much.” He turned to face Jeff.
“'Least not too deep.”

“I used to take Brian for walks back there, before he was
old enough to go on his own.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “Always stayed in sight of
the farm, though, I'm guessing.”

Jeff shrugged. “I guess. I don't really like being out there
too far. Not my sort of place.”

John looked at him, the beginnings of a smile seeming
to teeter at the corners of his mouth. “It sure used to be.
Back when you were Brian's age, you practically lived in the
woods.”

“I played there a bit.”

“It was more than that. Your father was always chasing
after you in there, making sure you weren't hung up
somewhere, making sure you weren't late for dinner. You
spent the winter you were nine or ten planning a camp back
there for the next summer. Not a camping trip — a camp.
You were gonna spend the summer living back there. You
had it all figured out.”

Something tickled again at the back of Jeff's mind,
a sense of displaced familiarity that allowed him — no,
forced him — to concede to John's words. “I guess. I don't
remember that at all.” He took another sip of his coffee.

The older man had turned his gaze back to the dark,
to the rising voices. “I'm not surprised. Not after what
happened.”

“After what happened?” The tickle was stronger, and
he knew what John was going to tell him without actually
remembering.

Like father like son.

John turned back to him. “You really don't remember.”
He didn't seem at all surprised.

“I — ”

“That spring, the spring you were eleven years old, you
disappeared. You were gone overnight. Almost two days.”

Jeff looked at him incredulously. He knew the words
were true — though he wasn't sure of just how he knew — but
he couldn't help feel that they were referring to someone
else. He couldn't make the words match up to his own life.

“Two days.”

John nodded. “And a night between. Everyone in town
was looking for you. There was no Search and Rescue in
those days, but once word got out . . .” He gestured back
at the house. “Your mom and Claire made sandwiches and
coffee. Kept everyone going.”

Like father like son.

“I don't understand how I could forget something like
that.”

Turning his head sharply, John pointed at the barn.
“They're coming out.”

The halogen lights of the supply truck swept down
the driveway, blinding the men, fixing them in a pool of
brightness in the midst of the gaining dark.

The thought came to Brian as he was on the edge of sleep
after his first day with Carly. It forced his eyes open, and he
felt his heart jump.

We didn't say when we would meet.

Everything about his last few minutes with Carly had
been so strange — her silence, the flowers — that he hadn't
even thought about setting a time for their meeting the
next morning.

It filled him with a sinking sense of dread: what if they
missed each other? What if she came and he wasn't there?
Would she wait? For how long? Or would she just give up
and assume he wasn't coming?

The questions kept circling in his head. The thought of
missing Carly, of maybe not seeing her, filled him with a
sadness he had never felt before.

That Saturday had been one of the best days of his life. He
had never met anyone like Carly before: someone who loved
the woods as much as he did. Someone who experienced
the same wonder, the same sense of magic, that he did.

Most other people, when he brought up the woods,
would smirk and laugh (if they were other kids) or smile
thinly and indulgently as they pretended to listen (if they
were grown-ups). Nobody understood what the forest
meant to him.

Nobody except Carly.

He couldn't miss her, he just couldn't. How could he have
been so stupid, not telling her a time? She was going to get
there and not see him and —

He'd just have to get there first. That was it. That was
the answer. He'd be out at the edge of the woods as early as
he could be, and when she got there,
he
would be waiting
for
her
.

He fell asleep moments later with that thought in his
mind and a broad smile on his face.

That night, Brian slept the sort of sleep adults envy:
rich and deep and dark. The sort of sleep that eleven-year-old boys who spend their days tramping through the woods
and playing in streams take for granted, the sort of sleep
from which nothing would wake him.

Jeff found Diane in Brian's bedroom, sitting on his bed. She
was rubbing her hands together compulsively, folding and
twisting them around one another. The room was dark, the
flashing yellow lights of the Search and Rescue trucks out
the window reflected on her face.

He stood in the doorway in silence, just watching her.

“What did they say?” she asked in a near-whisper,
without turning toward him.

He was startled by the sound of her voice. “What?”

“I saw you out there, talking to them.”

“They're going back out,” he said, stepping into the
room. “They've got their lights and radios now.” He stopped
beside her. He wanted to sit next to her on the bed. Or touch
her shoulder. Or take her hand.

He didn't.

“I don't blame you,” she said.

“What?”

“For this. For all of this. It's not your fault. He could
have gotten lost in the city just as easily. More easily. It's
not your fault.”

He understood the words: they were clear enough. But
in her broken voice, they seemed to mean the opposite of
what she was saying. All he heard was Diane blaming him.
And it was true. This was his fault. This never would have
happened in the city. Never would have happened if his
mother had been taking care of him.

He bit the inside of his lip until it bled.

“Did they . . . do they have any . . .”

He had to take a deep breath before he could speak. “Jim
said there are lots of trails, some of them really new. They
can't tell if they're from today, but they're really recent.”

As the crew had returned to the yard, Jim Kelly, one of
the owners of the Henderson Press, had been shaking his
head and rubbing his hands together. “Jesus, it's cold out
there.”

He stopped himself, seeing the look on Jeff's face.
“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

“That's all right.” It was cold; it wasn't like he hadn't
noticed.

“I'm gonna pop back into the office, grab my good
gloves.” And a drink, Jeff assumed. “Is there anything you
want from town?”

Jeff had shaken his head, and Jim had wandered up the
driveway toward his truck.

“Do you want to come downstairs?” he asked Diane,
both of them watching the Search and Rescue crew girding
themselves with reflective vests, and helmets with lights.
“Claire's made some sandwiches.”

“I'll stay here,” she said, her voice dead.

“All right,” he said, and waited, but she said nothing
more, and a moment later he turned away.