Then I’d think, Well, what am I doing up here in the woods? Had I erased myself from my family, down there in the farm far below? I didn’t have a good answer for that, but I had the eerie feeling that I wasn’t erasing Zinny; I was looking for her—as if I was invisible, but Zinny was out there somewhere. Other times, I thought I was looking for Rose, looking for Aunt Jessie, and they’d be there on the trail, waiting for me.
Once, as I crawled into my sleeping bag, I saw a flicker of reddish orange, and I sat still, wanting to chase it, but forcing myself not to. Stealthily, a fox moved into the clearing and stared at me, poised and alert on slender black legs. Bushy rust-colored fur surrounded a puff of white at its throat, and pointed ears stood erect, listening intently. It studied me, narrowing its eyes as if it knew me, and then it vanished.
I was left sitting there thinking about ants, who would be eaten by grasshoppers, and grasshoppers who would be eaten by birds, who might, in turn, be eaten by foxes, who might then be eaten by—. Nothing was safe; everything was in danger of being gobbled up by something else. Even me—I could be gobbled up too, like baby Rose and Aunt Jessie.
One night I dreamed that I was running through a maze with high green hedges, chasing a bumblebee as big as a bird. Behind me, panting, lurched a huge tiger carrying a stick in his brilliant white teeth.
It was the morning after this dream that I found the cup amid the cans of beans. I hadn’t brought a cup, or so I thought, but there it was. The next day, a can opener. Two days later I found the soap. I hadn’t brought soap, had I? I was a bit worried about my brain.
On the ninth day, I reached Sleepy Bear Ridge. This portion of the trail had been well carved: a solid, flat plateau about two feet wide, etched into the side of the hill. A rocky, grassy stretch rose to the left, and there, resting on the top of the ridge was a black rock which resembled a bear curled on its side. Below the trail, the hill was banked with tall larch trees, in small groups, with clearings in between. There were no stones on the trail, and there had probably never been stones here. The natural drainage of the land made this a dry, secure path. All I needed to do here was to clear some of the more overgrown sections.
From the top of the bear-shaped rock, I had a terrific view down over the mountainside and larch groves, and it was from this point that I spotted the roof of a small cabin below the trail. It was the first dwelling of any kind I’d seen so near the trail, and I suspected it was abandoned.
At the far end of this curved portion of the trail, about a mile away, the path slid into deep, dark trees, eerie and forbidding. On the map, this new area was marked as Spook Hollow. Spook Hollow would have to wait, for I was going home the next day.
CHAPTER 30
HOMECOMING
I had planned to clear part of the trail before heading home on the tenth day, but when I awoke just before sunrise, it was raining. This was all the excuse I needed to leave straight away, and once I’d made that decision, I was surprised at how eager I was to go home.
I secured my things beneath the tarp, taking with me only my backpack and food sack, and set off down the trail. In some ways it seemed that time had raced by—already it was the tenth day, already I was heading home—but in other ways it seemed that I’d been gone for months. I kept trying to remember what everyone looked like, and to guess how they’d react when they saw me. How happy they’d be to see me again, safe and sound, not shriveled from hunger or mauled by a bear.
When I had agreed to come home every ten days, I imagined that I would dash in, grace them with my presence for a few minutes, shovel more food in my pack, and race back to my camp. Now, as I walked proudly down my trail, crossing the old railroad, I thought I might spend the whole day at home, maybe even the night. I’d do it as a favor to my family, I told myself, so that they wouldn’t feel too entirely miserable at my dashing in and out as if I couldn’t stand to be there. But really it would be a favor to me: I wanted to be there.
No sooner had I decided to stay the night than I had doubts. They would think I was homesick. Maybe they were happier with me gone, anyway; maybe they would be annoyed if I came back and got in everyone’s way.
As I started across Baby Toe Ridge, I saw someone ahead of me on the trail. It was Jake Boone with a backpack slung over his shoulder. When he turned off the trail to head down the hillside, I called to him. He practically jumped out of his skin.
“Zinny? What the heck—?”
I nearly dissolved into a puddle at the sound of a human voice. “What exactly are you doing up here, Jake?”
“Cripes—”
“Have you been spying on me?”
“Cripes—”
“You were, weren’t you? You brought the cup and the soap and the can opener, didn’t you?” Everything was coming out all wrong. I didn’t want to sound like this.
“Cripes—”
“Can’t you say anything besides ‘Cripes’? What do you think you’re doing, spying on me like that?”
“Cri—Zinny, I don’t exactly call it spying. I was watching over you—”
“I don’t need any watching over.” Why were these words coming out of my mouth? Part of me was happy that he’d wanted to protect me, and that he’d brought me things I’d forgotten, but another part of me was all blown up like a toad. I’d wanted to do this by myself. I needed to. I didn’t know why, either, and that made me even madder. I zapped him again: “And where were you sneaking off to just now?”
“Cripes. Down there. It’s a shortcut to an old dirt road where I left the truck.”
“Well, go on then. Who’s stopping you?”
“Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
“No thanks. I’m going down the trail. My trail.”
“You’re as hard as a stone, Zinny Taylor.” Then he nearly knocked me off my feet by yanking me toward him. He seemed so tall all of a sudden. I could smell pine on his shirt, and little beads of sweat were trickling down his neck.
My mouth stopped yapping. I was going to stand there forever and I would never speak again and time would go on and on and on. Jake put one soft hand on each side of my face and leaned down and placed a kiss on my mouth. Right there on my lips. I nearly vaporized into the atmosphere. Before I could blink, though, he stepped back and said, “Might as well give you something to really get in a duck fit about!” And as I stood there like a stone, he sauntered off down the hill.
When I regained my senses, I was so flustered I didn’t know what to do. “You worm!” I called. “You—you—complete worm!” Really. Sometimes I am such a jerk. He wasn’t a worm at all. I hoped he hadn’t heard me.
I took off across Baby Toe Ridge and ran down the trail, through Crow Hollow, and on through the first part of Maiden’s Walk. But I stopped short when I came to the fenced meadow, where I had cut the barbed wire and laid the stones. “Cripes!” I said. Someone had repaired the barbed wire and hung a sign on it: NO TRESPASSING!
The stones still lay across the meadow, and there was no sign of anyone or of any animals. My wire cutters were miles back at the camp. It was easy enough to get through the fence by stretching the wires apart, but I’d have to make a more permanent arrangement. I’d have to cut them again. No trespassing? The owners obviously didn’t know about the public right-of-way. I could no longer remember whether it was true about the trail being a public right-of-way, or whether I’d made that up, but that seemed of little importance.
Farther down the trail, I checked the place where I’d found the medallion and where I’d later buried the ring. The hole was still empty.
On down the trail I went until there it was: the farm, as if newly planted for my eyes only. That big wonderful barn, with its funny lopsided doors. That green grass, those stately trees. That sweet, sweet house sitting by itself in the clearing, with the tall oak leaning toward my bedroom window. It was a beautiful landscape, a magnificent miniature world.
It was early yet, and so I stopped at the creek to look for Poke. I dug up a few wor
ms, and, as if in answer to my offering, Poke emerged from beneath an overhanging rock, lifting his head toward me tentatively. I laid the worms on a leaf and waited. Inch by inch, Poke crept up the bank, and behind him followed another, smaller turtle.
I went on up to the house, wondering why I was suddenly so nervous, why I felt like a stranger trespassing. The house was unusually quiet. Were they expecting me? Were they planning a surprise?
I crossed the porch and entered the kitchen. No one in sight, no sounds of anyone. The door to Uncle Nate’s was closed. Upstairs, my parents’ bedroom was empty. The boys’ door was open, and inside, the three of them were curled up, sound asleep. Were they pretending? I touched Ben’s foot, which was sticking out beneath his blanket. He murmured and kicked, as if shaking off a fly. In my room, not only were my sisters asleep, but someone was in my bed. A tousled head of brown hair rested on my pillow.
It was not exactly the homecoming I had hoped for.
CHAPTER 31
DAG-BLASTED BODY
When I sat on the edge of Bonnie’s bed, she opened her eyes, blinked sleepily, and said, “Oh, hi.”
“Where are Mom and Dad?” I asked.
“Mm? Aren’t they here? Maybe Dad’s at work. He had an emergency or something, I think. Mom’s probably watching Uncle Nate.”
“Why?”
She yawned. “I’m not hardly half awake, Zinny Don’t you know about Uncle Nate?”
“Know what?”
“He hurt himself—guess how.”
I felt cold, afraid. “How?”
“Doing the boogie-woogie.”
“Is he here? Is he okay?”
“Of course he’s here, Zinny. He told Dad he’d shoot himself before he’d go to a hospital.”
“I’ve got to see him,” I said. “By the way, who’s in my bed?”
“Shh. You’ll wake her. That’s Junie.”
I hadn’t the vaguest idea who Junie was, but she sure looked comfortable. I had another one of those odd feelings—maybe that was Zinny in the bed, and I was someone else. It gave me the creeps.
Downstairs, I went through to Uncle Nate’s and inched open his bedroom door. Mom was dozing in a chair near his bed, and Uncle Nate lay flat on his back, wide awake, clutching his stick. I didn’t like to see him like that, confined to his bed.
“Shh,” he said, but Mom had already heard me.
“Zinny!” she said, leaping up to hug me. “I knew you’d be fine. I knew you’d be back when you said. You’ll have to tell us everything. Here, sit down. Will you stay with Nate while I get some breakfast ready?”
I stood there like an old dead tree trunk. She looked so different. Had her hair always curled like that at the temples? Had she always had those creases by her eyes?
She turned at the door to glance back at me. “I knew you’d be fine,” she repeated. “I knew it.”
I sat beside Uncle Nate. “Want to get up?” I asked.
“Cain’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cain’t do it.”
“You hurt your leg?”
“Dag-blasted leg. Dag-blasted heart. Dag-blasted body.”
“What’s wrong with your heart?”
“It jumps.”
Mom poked her head through the doorway. “Don’t get him too excited, Zinny. Don’t upset him. Just stay there a minute. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Pumpkin,” Uncle Nate whispered, beckoning me closer.
“What is it?”
“I oughta be dead.”
“Don’t say that! You’ll be okay. You’ll get better.”
“I cain’t run.” He pressed his hands against his face.
Something inside me was splintering into a zillion little pieces.
After Mom came back, I went out to the front porch and sat in the swing, staring at the ash tree for a long, long time. Why did people get old? Why did people get sick? Why couldn’t the hand of God fix whooping cough? Why couldn’t it snatch a woman back from a drawer? Why couldn’t it fix Uncle Nate? I couldn’t stand it. I wanted answers to my questions, and I wanted them immediately.
It was a strange day. At first I felt as if I were an alien who had just landed in paradise. The most ordinary things startled me. Running water—what a miracle! Toilets! Milk! Eggs! Toast! Television! Electricity! Hearing voices was a delicious treat, and when someone laughed, I thought: What a perfect sound that is.
Sam rushed out of the room, returning a few minutes later with Ben. “See?” Sam said. “I told you she was crying.”
“Zinny?” Ben said. He put his face up close to mine. “You’re crying.”
I loved that face. I loved every single thing about his perfect face.
Although my family didn’t make a huge fuss over me as I had hoped, they did make a little fuss as, one by one, they noticed that I’d returned. Eventually they each got around to asking, “How is it up there, camping and all?”
I was full up to the top of my head with things to say, but then Will asked for the milk, and Gretchen said, “At least you don’t have to do any chores,” and then Sam jumped in, and whatever I’d been thinking was lost in the clattering of dishes or wailing complaints (“Ben’s taken my shirt—make him give it back!”).
My mother and Ben seemed most intrigued. “It’s amazing what you’re doing, Zinny,” my mother said. “Simply amazing. You should hear your dad talk about how far you’ve gotten. He loves tracking your progress from the air.”
“Gosh,” Bonnie said. “I could never stay outside all night.” She shuddered. “Too creepy.”
“And look at you,” Mom said. “You look so fit and healthy. Good for you, Zinny. Good for you.”
Good for you. This had a strange effect on me. Had I actually done something good? Or had something good happened to me? That phrase kept rolling around in my brain: Good for you.
“Have you seen any snakes yet?” Ben asked, and then seemed disappointed when I said I hadn’t.
“Want to come up there with me, Ben?” Was this me talking? Was I actually inviting some-one to join me?
He thought a minute. “Maybe another time.”
“Afraid of the snakes?” Bonnie said.
“No, I am not,” Ben said. “I’ve got to watch my garden.”
I wanted to tell them everything—about light and darkness and time and the creatures and the fox with the staring eyes and the shadows and hearing the train whistle and thinking of home. I wanted to tell them about Maiden’s Walk and Baby Toe Ridge and Crow Hollow, but I didn’t know how to explain. Besides, they weren’t used to hearing me jabber on, and after a few hours, I lapsed into my old silent Zinny self.
The second half of the day, I became fidgety and irritable. Inside the house, I felt like a caged animal, and I’d escape to the porch or the yard, where I’d inhale gulps of air. The sound of human voices became overwhelming—all that chattering, all those loud whoops and shouts. Noises assaulted me: chairs scraping on the floor, the computer bleeping, dishes clattering, footsteps thumping overhead, doors slamming, phones ringing, music blaring.
Once, when Ben, Sam, and Bonnie were all yapping at once, and May was screaming upstairs about a missing hairbrush, I fled to the squirt gardens. Ben’s row was immaculate: completely weedless, with perfectly upright bean plants staked like a row of thin soldiers at attention, their pale beans hanging like limp fingers.
I’d been wary of seeing my squirt garden, feeling guilty that I’d neglected it all summer. I expected to see a tangled mass of weeds choking the tomatoes and zinnias. Wrong! The tomatoes were firm and green, well staked, free of weeds and bugs, and surrounded by healthy zinnias in full bloom.
Someone had been caring for my garden, and that should have touched me, but in my moody state, it annoyed me. Someone had interfered, someone had taken over my garden, just as someone had taken over my bed.
Grumpily, I stomped back to the house, and rammed things into my backpack: a change of clothes, toothpaste, and zinnia seeds.
I made out a new food list, burrowed into my closet where my money was hidden, and headed for Mrs. Flint’s store.
CHAPTER 32
A BEAUT
As I left the drive and turned onto the main road, a shiny red convertible pulled up beside me. “Hey, Zinny!” Oh that voice! It was Jake, tanned and scrubbed, in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, his hair mussed. I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t dare. I kept walking, as his car crept along beside me. “Zinny—wait. Where you going?”
“Mrs. Flint’s.”
“The store? Come on, I’ll give you a lift.” He stopped, jumped out, and opened the passenger door. “Come on, it’s hotter than blazes. It’ll save your feet.”
My feet didn’t need saving, but I climbed in the car. This was going to be it, I thought. I was going to know—there would be another sign—whether Jake really liked me or not. My heart was saying, Of course he does—the kiss, the kiss, but, strangely, my head was saying this, The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. It was as if I thought that a hand was going to drop down from the heavens and snatch Jake from the driver’s seat.
“It’s a beaut—don’t you think?” he asked, running his hand across the dashboard.
I was gripping the door handle, keeping my eyes on the road, forcing my voice to be steady. “Where’d you get it?”
“It’s a beaut,” he repeated, ignoring my question. “I know you don’t like trucks, but how about this? Isn’t it a beaut?”
Try to sound normal, Zinny. Try to sound like your normal muley self. “Yeah, it’s a beaut. Where’d you get it?”
“You’re really making progress on that trail.”
“You oughta know, I guess. Where’d you get this car?”