26

 

       DOUG

 

    If you press against the bottom, right down near the roots, with the outside edge of the sole of your shoe, the brush'll just sort of spread out away from you and out of you way.  That was you can get through without breaking it.  You have to just press it out of the way.  Not step on it and mash it  down.  I hold the way open for him after I'm through so he won't break anything.  He follows closely.

    The brush bends easy this time of year; the branches are still young and the inside green.  The bark is smooth in my hand as I hold it aside.  The life in it is there, right out there where you can feel it.  It fills up everything, the touching, the smelling, the tasting.  The green is as far as you can see.  He breathes right in my ear; his breath is rushed and uneven.

    Tired?

    No, he says, but I know better.  I cut up to the top of the ridge and wind in and out among the limestone.  Suddenly the green is gone and all you can see is blue, the blue of the sky and the blue of the mountains across the valley.  We top out on a level spot, and I sit on a rock, drawing my legs over to give him room to pass by and sit on the tree stump he likes.

    You get tired easy, I say.  You're growing too fast.  Wear you out.

    He doesn't answer.

    That's what your Mom says, ain't it?  Says that you're growing too fast and don't get enough energy.

    He shrugs.

    I heard her say it.

    He shrugs again.

    Thinks she's right?  My mom used to say that, and I never thought it was right.  Let her say it though; got me out of doing a lot of stuff.  Course I never did shoot up like you.  Think that's what it is?  Growing too fast?

    I dunno, he shrugs.

    Hurt?

    He turns and looks right at me.  What?

    The growing.  I've heard it can hurt in the arms and legs.  You know, growing pains.

    No, it don't hurt.

    You get teased much?

    Uh uh, there's boys bigger'n me at school.  Dad thinks it's funny.

    He won't think it's so funny when you start pounding on him.  You'll be taller'n him before next year.

    I can tell by the look on his face that the idea had never occurred to him.  His eyes seem to turn into his head as if he's watching the new thought being born.  He sits like that, not answering.  I let it go.  How about the girls?

    He grins and stays quiet.

    What's your Dad doing?

    I dunno, he shrugs.  Something about fixing up Grandpa's house and moving up here.

    Where?  Up here?

    No, to Grandpa's house.  He bought it from him.  I can't figure out why, though.

    Bought what?

    The house.  And the trees.  The orchard.

    Below us, Art and Lorraine come out of the house and go to the station wagon.  They stop and look up the side of the slope..  Art  gets in the driver's side.  Lorraine cups her hands around her mouth and calls up into the trees.  Her voice doesn't carry.  Eric stands and waves both arms like a survivor of an air crash.  His arms flail about him like unsynchronized propellers, about to crash into each other.  He calls back.

    She can't hear you any better than you can hear her.  Probably can't see you either.  Not up here though?  He didn't buy this land, did he?

    No.  Why would he want this?  Can't do anything with this.  Bye.  He jumps from his log to another and then to the ground.  The underbrush bends, gives all it can, finally breaks as he runs through it.  I hear him for three or four minutes as he crashes downward; I can visualize the routes he chooses, the branches he breaks, the smells he scatters without tasting them.  Finally I can hear him no more, but my mind follows him through the rocks that mark the crease in the earth at the foot of the mountain, along the stream to the edge of the trees, and then up the bank and into the open.

    He appears.  Running through the apple trees, he turns and waves, almost falling in his hurry.  His mother opens the car door.  After a minute, they drive away.  I don't wave back.