EXCERPT

After he filled the wood box by the stove, fifteen-year-old Lewis Toma walked down to the river and dipped two buckets into the water. Even though a pump house had been built close to the river near the bridge three months ago and pipes had been installed in a ditch thirty feet away from the house, the water spout and shut-off tee poked out of the ground like useless sculptures. “The water should be hooked up any day now,” his mother told him. That was weeks ago but every day he struggled with the heavy pails bumping his leg and spilling water over his bruised legs. When he kicked off his soaked runners he opened the door and went into the kitchen the foot prints of his wet feet on the boards dissolved into nothing behind him as if he was being followed by a ghost.

The fire in the cook stove cracked and bumped as he opened the reservoir. Wispy curls of steam drifted to the ceiling and made the air feel even hotter. After filling the reservoir he set the pails on the water stand where they fit neatly into the black rings on the linoleum top. The house always felt hot in the morning because his mother Grace wanted to have all the cooking done for the day so she could let the fire go out. But this morning he was too hungry to care. He gobbled down a breakfast of mush, a slice of bread with jam and a cup of cold sweet tea and stepped out onto the porch. The outside air felt cool on his sweaty body and the overhead sun bearing down on the knotty planks felt hot on his bare feet. In less than hour his running shoes had dried completely. He banged them together and specks of dust churned in the air like no-see-ums.

He looked down toward the trees that shielded the river and saw the constant wave of little birds darting from tree to tree as if they couldn’t make their minds up where to roost. Crows balancing on tree tops watched all the commotion below and seemed to shake their heads at the sight. It was quiet now; unlike in the spring when the water roared and spilled onto the shore by the constant rush of wind and he even felt the quivering of the bed springs at night. He wondered if he should go down past Uncle Alphonse’s home or around the outhouse on the trail his big brother Eddie had made so many years ago down to the water. Either way, he wanted to get going. Lewis walked past the outhouse until he came to the trail that led off through the woods. He stepped into the forest and threaded his way through the many false trails his brother had created to throw off intruders. 

“Mom, where’s Eddie?”

“How should I know,” she said without looking up from a magazine whose pages were so worn that it was ready for use in the outhouse.

“Where do you think he is then?”

“Where do I think he is? How do I know?”

“What?”

“Just go outside and look for him.” 

When he was five, he had followed the trail past the smelly toilet and found a barely visible path leading into the trees. After stepping inside an opening he was quickly surrounded by the clutching hooks and barbs of wild rose bushes. Ducking under branches he tripped over exposed roots and when he stepped into a hole and fell, scratching his face, he wondered if he would ever find his way out. Finally after stumbling out of the maze next to the water he found his brother on a cedar log with a fishing pole.

Now ten years later, he knew every stick and rock along the way. He saw the pointy stump where he watched Eddie hack away at the tree with an axe, the large fir that was riddled with holes left by eager woodpeckers that looked more like bullet holes where somebody emptied both barrels of a shotgun. And there was the burl on the side of a tree that looked like a woman’s breast  Eddie used to rub for good luck each time he walked by. Lewis gave a quick squeeze and continued on. Minutes later he stepped out onto the shore.         

A startled Blue Heron scrambled off the river as water fell from its feet in glassy ribbons. Powerful wings lifted it skyward until it tipped on its side and glided around the bend in the river like a prehistoric bird. Its honking squawk echoed like a trumpet. Small bugs circled his face and went into his mouth and he choked when he felt one go down his throat. Something nipped at his neck. He swatted at it then dropped it into the water. Looking downriver he saw the large cedar log where he had seen Eddie so many times before. But his brother wasn’t there. The pain of not knowing how his brother was, or if he would ever see him again, kept him awake, sometimes long into the night. And how he dreaded the nightmares that were so real they woke his mother and she told him she had to shake him and pinch him before he came around.  

Lewis had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up twenty paces away from the trail opening. He was positive he had been on the right path but it looked like Eddie’s trick had worked again. Rather than going back into the bushes, Lewis stepped out into the river and made his way down to the opening. Stumbling on slippery stones, he sat down on the ground with sweat burning his eyes. He cupped a hand into the water and splashed it onto his face. As he caught his breath a light wind shook the leaves of the trees around him and felt cool. A clamour of small birds rose from the branches and disappeared downstream. After a few minutes Lewis stood and brushed off his pants. He looked around on the ground and saw that it had been cleared of sticks and rocks.  And then he remembered that this was where Alphonse had found drops of blood beside flattened grass.