These Silent Woods: A Novel(33)

“Oh.” Of course she would obsess over this. First time we ever run into someone in the woods and it’s a girl. A young woman. Whatever she is. “Sugar, I really don’t know. I can’t say I got a good look at her, to tell you the truth.” I point to the bladder. “Careful here. Go along this way. You don’t want to cut this. You’ll have a real mess on your hands.”

“Do you think she’s a nature photographer? Or an artist?”

“Hard to tell.” I reach out and guide her hand as she cuts.

“I know, but we can guess. Or imagine.” She stops working and looks at me. “We can make something up. I like thinking about her.”

Whether to allow this, whether to engage or shut it down altogether. “All right, fine.”

She turns the knife and hands it to me. “I’ll go first. I think she is a princess who has run away. She has always wanted to explore the land beyond the kingdom gates, and finally, at the annual winter festival, she sees her chance to steal away, and she does.”

Should I be reading into this? A girl who wants to explore beyond her kingdom. I look at Finch. She grins and the wind tugs hair from behind her ear and blows it across her face.

“I think she was probably out in the woods taking pictures and accidentally wandered off national forest land and ended up in the valley.” This is what I hope. But, given our recent findings in the woods, I’m not convinced it’s true.

She sighs. “I sure would like to see her again.”

I give her a look, but she’s staring into the treetops, squinting at a bird.

“She was lost but found her way and she won’t be back,” I add. (If we’re imagining, why not fulfill the fantasy?)

“I hope you’re wrong about that, Cooper. I really do.”

Once we’ve finished field-dressing the deer, I sling the backpack over my shoulder and grab the buck by one antler. Drag him back toward the cabin, over the long stretch of lichen-covered rock; up the hill and through the pines. Taxing work, and I’m sweating hard by the time we’re home. In the yard I take a swig of water and catch my breath, then get to work on hoisting him up in the shed while Finch works the hand pump and rinses the blood from her hands. She bends down, dries them in the grass, disappears in the cabin.

When she returns, she’s got her slingshot and notebook. I’ve got the deer hanging upside down, and I’m using my pocketknife to remove the skin. Walt Whitman is sliding between my feet, licking drops of blood, his white face and whiskers stained.

“Tenderloin for supper, Finch. Your favorite.”

She nods. “I’m going to set some traps.”

I slide the knife along the rib cage. Ponder this. The girl, the camera. But also the fact that scouting and wandering—they are small freedoms and joys I can give Finch. And once the snow hits, she’ll be even more limited. “I don’t want you near the valley. Don’t forget.”

“I’ll head north, behind the house. I saw lots of sign back there. I’ll set some deadfalls.”

Deadfalls. She notches branches, creates a figure-four. She props up a heavy rock and places some bait on the ground. Never once has she caught a thing, but she gets a kick out of it. I hold out my hand. “Here, take my watch. Come back in twenty minutes, okay?”

She unfastens it from my bloody wrist and slides it in her pocket.

“And take this darn cat along, would you?”

She grins and shakes her head. “He’ll slow me down,” she says, and with that, darts off, waddling just a little in her thick camouflage pants and jacket.

“He’s slowing me down,” I mutter, nudging Walt Whitman with my boot. He looks up and meows and then begins attempting to climb my leg.

I watch her go. She jogs along, the wide legs of her camo pants swishing. At the edge of the woods, she turns and raises a hand. I wave back. And then she is gone, slipping into the thickness of the pines.



* * *



“You two were out late last night.” Scotland: his raspy voice, there in the yard, just a few feet away.

Finch is back by this point, shooting rocks at a target with her slingshot. She’s getting good at it, better than me. I’m digging carrots, a pathetic crop of short, gnarly stumps, and I throw one into the basket and stand up to look him in the eye. Heart in my throat from him just showing up like that and he can see it, the panic.

Laughter. Mirth. He’s roiling with it. “The look on your face.” He wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

“You’re a son of a bitch, you know that, Scotland?”

“Language, Cooper. Language,” he says, turning serious and glancing meaningfully at Finch. “There’s a song children sing in Sunday school.” He clears his throat and then starts singing. “‘Oh, be careful, little ears, what you hear. Oh, be careful, little ears, what you hear.’”

This life and its contradictions. The sun overhead, warm and bright against the still December sky. The black-capped chickadees quivering at the bird feeder. But then Scotland there in the yard, singing church songs, eyes locked on Finch.

He keeps going. “‘Oh, be careful, little tongue, what you say. Oh, be careful, little tongue, what you say. For the Father up above is looking down in love. Oh, be careful, little tongue, what you say.’”