These Silent Woods: A Novel(26)

This time, it didn’t have to be like that. I could fight for Grace Elizabeth and I would. And not in some court.

You will see that in all of the animal kingdom, creatures protect their young in the most senseless ways. They will throw themselves in harm’s way. They will fight, wing and claw and tooth. The stegodyphus spider, for example. When her young are old enough, she rolls over and lets the babies climb on her and eat her. What I mean to say here is that it isn’t unnatural for a person to do everything in his power to protect his young. It isn’t wrong.

The caseworker showed up a few hours later, just like they said she would. By that point I’d already formulated a plan and made substantial progress on it, but I was careful not to let on. I had the Bronco loaded with everything I could think of, starting with weapons and ammunition. Three shotguns: 16-gauge, 20-gauge, and the sawed-off Lincoln kept next to her bed her whole life. Four rifles: a .22, a thirty-aught-six, a .308, my .243. Then there was the smokestick that she sometimes took out in late season. And of course I had the Ruger.

Grace Elizabeth’s clothes and diapers and three pictures, one of just Cindy and one of Cindy and me and one of the three of us. Blankets and matches and towels and soap. Formula, canned goods. All of my cash, which was quite substantial because I’d never spent my signing bonus with the military, or much of the other money I’d made when I was overseas. I’d come home and cashed it all and locked it in Lincoln’s safe because if there was one thing I was sure of in those days, it was that you couldn’t trust the banks.

Two books, I grabbed at the last minute and put them under the passenger seat. The Holy Bible and Lincoln’s well-worn favorite, The Book of North American Birds.

I’d done all of this by the time the caseworker pulled up. I was almost ready, but like I said, I played it cool.

Linda was her name, and she was nice enough. It was likely I could get Finch back, she said, provided that I could clean the place up and, more importantly, demonstrate that I was stable and reliable.

“In the vast majority of cases,” she explained, “the state likes to see parents and children together.” She paused, tracing the hem of her jacket sleeve. “Your case is somewhat tricky because you and the mother weren’t married. You must understand: that makes things a little more difficult in terms of legal matters. Not impossible, mind you. It’s just that it adds a layer of complication.”

“What do you mean, a layer of complication?”

“I mean that we need to determine paternity. The gist of it, unfortunately, translates to more time.”

“How much time?” I hadn’t slept and I was seething by then, angry not only at Judge and Mrs. Judge and CPS, but also myself. For letting Finch go.

“Well, it depends, of course. Typically, reunification takes between six and eighteen months.”

“Eighteen months!” Grace Elizabeth would be walking, talking, feeding herself. I’d miss all of it.

“Mr. Morrison, please. Try to understand. These things take time. Meanwhile, you might use this opportunity to gesture toward improving your situation. You might seek therapy, for instance. That would show that you’re wanting to be healthy. And Mr. Morrison, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might also work to tidy up a bit. We offer a class on that…”

By that point I wasn’t listening, not really. Six months, eighteen months: I wasn’t about to wait around for some court to determine whether I was good enough to be my own kid’s dad. No, sir. Meeting with that caseworker confirmed it. I knew what needed to be done.

Late that night, I went to the Judges’ house and got Grace Elizabeth. Let’s leave it at this: I did what I had to do, and I got her.





THIRTEEN




Now that we’ve stocked up on supplies from Walmart, the second arm of our new survival plan involves expanding our hunting territory. We’ll head down to the river, a place we call the valley. With a water source, it’s our best chance of seeing some game, and we need meat. Usually Finch is excited about these expeditions, especially since we’re heading into less familiar ground. But this afternoon, she’s off. She harasses the cat. She stands close, fidgets, head hung low. I set my bow against the door and rest my hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

She reluctantly pulls something from her back pocket and holds out her hand. “I found this,” she mutters, staring at the floor. “Last night when I was scouting.”

I take it, flip it over in my palm. A round, plastic disk. A lens cap, I think. Black with silver lettering: NIKON.

I think of Scotland, the spotting scope. “Where?”

“East.”

“How far?”

She twists her new boots back and forth. “By Old Mister.” Her name for a massive, gnarly white oak about a quarter mile away, between the cabin and the valley.

I wrap my fingers tight around the lens cap, try to hold in my frustration. At her, for wandering, but also at him. “What were you doing all the way out there alone? You know the rules.”

“I was trailing a squirrel. I lost track.”

“Why didn’t you show me yesterday?”

She shrugs. “I knew you’d be mad I’d gone too far.”

An unsettling realization: that Finch could keep something from me. Withhold information. That she could have secrets of her own. “Listen,” I say, kneeling next to her. “I don’t want to take it from you, the freedom to roam. But if you can’t be trusted, I will. You understand?”