These Silent Woods: A Novel(24)

I know the list. The many things Finch is missing out on, based on my decision to bring us here. I’m well aware that there are things that she will simply not have, some of which are rather significant. And sure, there are times when I question whether it’s fair to raise a child without certain facets of life that people consider to be central to an American childhood. Whether my own troubles have been forced upon her, whether, one day, she’ll resent that. What I rest on, though, what keeps me from getting too tangled up in feeling bad about it, is that this life I am giving her—it’s not conventional, but at its core, it’s a good life. Wholesome. In terms of basic necessities, she lacks nothing. She’s cared for. Loved.

I swing the axe high and pull it down hard, palm sliding up the handle. The oak splits and falls into two halves. I bend and pick them up and pitch them to my new pile. “We got everything we need right here, Finch. Food, clothes, warmth, peace. Each other.” Even as I say it, a part of me twinges. It’s good, for now. Good enough, anyhow. But, much as I hate to admit it, I understand: one day—and that day will be here before I know it—this place will be too small for her.

She holds Walt Whitman to her nose. “It’s just sometimes I wonder what it’d be like. To be out there. All the people. And think about the castles, villages, cities, buildings. Horses! What would it be like to ride a horse? Trains, airplanes. I mean, can you imagine flying?”

“That’s the nice thing about books. You can experience all different people and all sorts of places through them. All in the safety and comfort of your own home.”

The wind picks up and tosses leaves that tumble and spin across the yard. I set another round log upright and swing the axe. Finch will leave, eventually. I know that. I understand that this world we’ve built—hunting, fishing, reading the same books over and over—it cannot last forever. That’s what makes it more precious to me, knowing it’s a temporary state. Well, everything is temporary. This place and this chapter: I cling to it, I admit that. But I do have an endgame. The plan being that when Finch turns eighteen, I’ll put her in touch with her grandparents. Give her their name and number, their address. Tell her a little bit about them. I’ll encourage her to go to them. One thing I’m sure of is this: one look at Finch, and Judge and Mrs. Judge will know exactly who she is, her being the spitting image of Cindy when she was young. I’ll send the photo of Cindy along, too, in case they need more evidence. But they won’t.

Now, to be clear—I hate the idea of this. Thinking of Finch leaving, stepping out into the world without me: it makes me sick. She has a life to live, though, and I want her to have it. In due time, she will.

“I think I’ll fry up potatoes for supper,” I say. “If it’s not too windy, we’ll make a campfire outside. I got something new at Walmart. Something you need to know about. Hot dogs.”

One day she’ll need more, I understand that. She’ll not only want to know about the world; she’ll want to see it. Taste it, feel it. Experience it herself. I can’t blame her. And she will have it, just not yet. For now, I haven’t told her the long and dreadful story of why we’re really here, the details of what I had to do to get her back. No need for her to know, at least not yet. She’s eight and she thinks of me as good, and I let her think it, and is there anything wrong with that—me wanting her to see me in a certain light? No. That’s of the utmost importance to me, my daughter’s respect, and I don’t mind admitting it. The way she looks at me. The way I provide stability in the world, footing. I’ll tell her someday. All of it. What the world beyond these hundred acres has done to us. What it would do to us still.





TWELVE




After Cindy died, I knew right away her parents would be a problem. Which they were. But not in the way I would’ve pictured. First, Mrs. Judge brought over a meat pie. Milk, eggs, bread. I met her at the door and accepted the pie and a paper bag of groceries. I didn’t invite her into the house. She didn’t ask. The next time, she brought lasagna, and two days later, formula and diapers. The third time, I let her in.

“I could take her for a few hours,” she said, holding the baby. “I know you’re tired, Kenny. Who wouldn’t be? You could get some rest.” It was true: I was tired. On the rare chance that Grace Elizabeth actually slept for a spell through the night, I couldn’t sleep on account of the anxiety. The accident on repeat anytime I closed my eyes. Cindy’s face. “We’re her grandparents, Kenny,” said Mrs. Judge. “Let us help. It’s what Cindy would want. You know that.”

So I agreed. Two days later, Mrs. Judge came to the house. I had a diaper bag ready but she said she’d already gathered some supplies at her place. She had a car seat, too, apparently. “I’ll bring her back this evening,” she said, and before I could even kiss Grace Elizabeth goodbye, Mrs. Judge bundled her up and waltzed out the door. A few hours later, Mrs. Judge brought the baby back, dressed in a different outfit and wearing a headband.

The next morning, two vehicles pulled into the driveway: a blue sedan and a patrol car. Nobody got out of the patrol car, but two people climbed out of the sedan, a man and a woman. Just came to the door and knocked. They were with Child Protective Services, they said.

This was eleven days after we buried Cindy, and it should not come as a surprise to anyone that things were not going well. For starters, Cindy had nursed. Grace Elizabeth had never taken a bottle, and she wasn’t too keen about me shoving the plastic nipple in her mouth. Nor did I know what I was doing in regards to holding her at the right angle and making sure she was burped. But after ten or twelve tries, she took the formula milk, drank it right up; she must’ve been so hungry she got over the desire to fight. And I got better at giving it to her. The sleeping, as I mentioned, remained an issue. She was up most nights and slept on and off through the day, and when she was awake, she wanted to be held. So I hardly got anything done.