“Sugar Maple”
by Christie Grimes

The chainsaw cut jagged bark off the log, carving it into a tall statue resembling a dimestore Indian with a stiff frown. Chips flew through the sawdusted air and coated the gray man in soft yellow. Flakes clung to the edges of his mustache, giving his facial hair the appearance of a flocked Christmas tree. He licked his lips and tasted pine. He only worked at dawn and dusk, spending the days inside, away from the sunlight. In the deepening shadows, every corner was dark and the light of the day glinted off his gold encrusted mustache.

Lavern had developed a condition called vitiligo, which weakened his skin cells and reduced his ability to produce melanin. Once he’d been on a cocktail of drugs used to treat skin cancer, but when the pills began to affect his eyesight, he chose to live indoors during the day, eating, reading, doing crosswords, and prowling the woods at night, free from restraint.

Since his condition appeared, he’d become fascinated with astronomy. He had spent some of his fall funds for wood on a two thousand dollar telescope to see into the depths of the galaxy, catch Pluto before it was ruled insignificant. He imagined Pluto, a perfectly happy planet, pleased with its solitude, ambivalent to people’s associations or concerns with its being. He dreamed of carving out planets, enormous round orbs, wished he could find solid pieces of wood large enough to shape them, nicking away pieces with his chisel until they were perfectly smooth.

He looked into his scope nightly, meditating on his planet and dreaming out his carvings, until one night boys broke into his shed, toppling his carvings, stealing his telescope, and leaving a ransom note for his wooden grizzly.

He found the note at dusk, after he had eaten his breakfast and watched the evening news. He knew his neighbors, or had once, when his wife was alive and hosted holiday parties. When she got sick, they brought casseroles; when she died, they sent flowers. By the time he was afflicted, he guessed they were just too tired. He didn’t know their boys, remembered them only as toddlers, but he figured that the ringleader must come from the farmhouse on the hill. The ornery blood of the Shockleys lived there, a family who’d once cheated the Baptist church out of firewood.

The note was scribbled, carelessly scratched out and then rewritten, telling him to leave his truck—with the keys, title, and ransom note inside—in a nearby ravine or he wouldn’t see his carving again. He could make another grizzly; it was the telescope he wanted back.

Lavern knew these sorts of pranks, had done them himself growing up: playing mailbox baseball, letting feral pigs loose in the high school hallway, cutting donuts into the shorn corn fields of a nearby farm. But he hadn’t stolen a two thousand dollar telescope or a twelve hundred dollar sculpture, much less both. He wondered at their gall to do this in broad daylight but didn’t think it showed bravery. They must have known he was awake at night. He was sure they would tell a wilder story to their friends while drinking cheap beer at a bonfire.

Between the growling sounds of his chainsaw and his nocturnal habits, the surrounding woods had developed a reputation. The kids from neighboring farms called him Old Man Vampire and tried to break into his shed to find dead bodies. In the back of his farmhouse, he worked in the shed alone, sending his work to the stores only once a month, so they stacked up around him: towering figures with stern faces and dead eyes—images of cowboys, Indians, grizzlies with teeth bared. His carvings were rigid, reflecting the hard true west and not those “welcome to grandma’s” tubby bears holding large fish. And though his shops begged him for the smiling, cutesy carvings, he refused.

Lavern had nearly thirty acres and knew all the trees in his woods by smell and texture, building off of his knowledge and the internal catalog he’d developed growing up. He could tell the trees apart even in dark fog. For awhile he’d used a headlamp while wandering in the night, but now he could make his way quickly and silently across his land unaided. When he was bored, he would bow hunt, always trying to scare up the animal first to make a fair game of it. Nestled in the small of his back and wedged beneath his belt, he kept a .22 pistol in case he had to put a trapped animal out of its misery or scare off a coyote. He tried to avoid using a rifle or shooting at night, though he doubted the sheriff would bother him. It wasn’t like he could hunt during the day, could make it into the supermarket easily, or that scaring up a doe or turkey at night and killing it was any worse than picking up prewrapped burger at the store.

For companionship, he’d adopted a pet skunk and named him Simon. Though it wasn’t an animal that he wanted to pet, they regarded each other with kindness. He left some kibble by the door to the workshop early each night and jingled a little bell so Simon could have first dibs on it. He’d had a dog once, a loyal hound with a good nose, but he’d gotten sick, and Lavern had to put him down. After that, Joanna had told him she didn’t think she could handle that again. He knew he couldn’t.

The boys must have slipped the loot out around noon, maybe even on a lunch break; it was closing in on November and the seniors must be restless with their lackluster start to the football season. Some men would contact the local police, investigate, maybe sue or press charges to get their belongings back, but men like that created a name for themselves. A man like that would be labeled in this town forever. He didn’t need that, already had enough labels. Plus he thought this a rare opportunity to teach young boys a lesson.

He planned to present the truck in the ravine as ordered, but there were many preparations that needed to be done. Lavern picked his way back to his house from his work shed, his eyes long ago adjusted to moonlight, and began to assemble the necessary tools.

First, he needed to be able to walk in the sunlight without burning or damaging his delicate, wrinkled skin. It had been so long since he set foot in the true rays of the sun, he began looking first in the attic, then in the basement for his necessary clothing. Once he had believed himself invincible, thought that the condition couldn’t be as bad as they said. And even if it was serious, advances in medicine would serve to protect him. He had noticed his tolerance diminishing, spots and burns on his arms where there was once tan, weathered skin. In stubborn refusal of his advanced state, his first exposure of an hour put him in the hospital for a week with third degree burns over his face, neck, and arms.

In the beginning he had purchased layered fibers, specially designed to protect the skin. Alone they were not enough, so he resorted to his own layering method developed over several years. His uniform consisted of opaque women’s tights over his legs, cut tights stretched over his arms, followed by spandex, then cotton, then wool. It looked so absurd he almost never left the house in the daylight, arranging for deliveries of his groceries, books, and supplies twice a month instead.

Now he couldn’t find any of his clothing. He tromped through his house, flustered, until he stopped at the guest bedroom. Once filled with Joanna’s crafts, it was now dusty and forlorn. In the corner, angels made from gingham cloth and corn silks sat curly and yellowed on top of a few discarded paint-by-number farms, which she had used to teach herself to create landscapes. Her embroidery machine took up the left side of the room, scraps of cloth and thread lying haphazard on the table nearby. On the right side of the room was a single bed where he laid many nights, drifting to sleep and dreaming that the small beeping monitor in the bedroom had stopped, then jolting awake to listen. After she was gone he had stayed in this room with an alarm clock beeping persistently in the bedroom trying to pretend that nothing had changed.

When his skin began to go, he had to move back to the bedroom where the blackout curtains and blinds were stronger and better angled to protect him while he slept. But he had still crept in here some afternoons for naps before taking her pictures down and boxing them up to store in the attic. Now he peeled back the small blue bedspread to reveal his clothing shoved into a small duffel bag. He snatched it and hurried to prepare for the boys.

Although bulky in his clothing, from the neck down he looked somewhat normal—if only the temperature had been cooler than 55—wearing a button-up wool shirt with gloves, thick lined jeans hanging down over boots. But the face was always the trying part. He had a neoprene hood over his head, which enclosed everything but a small space around his eyes. He outfitted this with a cap pulled low, his eyes hidden behind wraparound shades. It truly made him feel like a freak.

But today he reveled in it, determined to teach the boys a thing or two. He crouched in an old tree stand at the top of the ravine, hidden behind the changing leaves and thick limbs of an old sumac. The ravine wasn’t long, only two hundred yards lengthwise and twenty yards across, so that the thirty foot walls cast long shadows into the dirt even as noon slowly approached. His skin was slicked with sweat beneath the hood, but he breathed slowly and prayed for patience. He still prayed, believing that his requests quieted his soul rather than reached out to some all powerful being beyond the planets. Watching through binoculars, he waited.

He had parked his old diesel Ford at the end of the gully at nine but didn’t expect them until noon—the most likely time the boys would skip. He carefully worked around his layers periodically to drink from his thermos and take a leak, killing time by trying to identify the birds that he had long ago forgotten.

It had been some time since he had heard a mourning dove’s soft cooing or a bluejay’s tool-ool call. In his youth, he could imitate starlings, warblers, wrens, and orioles, as well as turkeys and pheasants. The chirping reminded him of weekends with Joanna, driving up through the Appalachians or Smokeys and finding small B&Bs in little towns with main streets, taking walks out through the woods and picnicking on trails, spending the evenings browsing used book stores and antiques. He loved the trees in the mountains; once they had gone all the way to Vermont in the fall, when the sugar maples were turning. Joanna fell in love with them and convinced him to come back the next season and buy several sugar maple saplings and plant them at home in North Carolina. He’d told her that they wouldn’t sugar, probably wouldn’t even grow in the heat and humidity of the South, but she’d insisted. He had gone to get them and planted them in the back corner of the lot with the house, where she could see them from her window. They had never grown very tall and hardly made it over the years. When she died, they were finally sturdy and taking root, and now they watched over her gravesite. At the top of the ravine it would be easy to let the sounds lull him to sleep. He closed his eyes and listened, even though the glare of the sun flared red beneath his lids.

At 11:40, he heard the rumble of a Hemi engine and saw the dust curling up through the air, trailing in his direction as the boys drove towards him. There were three of them. Football players to be sure, clad in royal blue mesh jerseys over white tees. The driver, wearing number seven, stepped out of the 4×4 pickup first, one lean leg stretching to the ground, boot landing heel first. He was slender but tall, in tight jeans with a faded ring on his back right pocket. Next to emerge was a boy thick with muscled fat, his head sprouting from his shoulders, wearing number fifty-three, probably a linebacker. The third towered over the other two, arms sticking out from his sides, muscles too big to rest his limbs flat against his body. As he turned, Lavern saw the number sixty-nine.

They laughed and bounced out of the truck, approaching the Ford from behind. He saw no sign of the grizzly or telescope. These boys had no honor, just as Lavern had figured.

Gusts of wind brought small snatches of conversation to him but it was difficult to make out what they were saying.

“That old fart—didn’t I?”

Seven was laughing and punched Fifty-three in the arm.

“Sure as shit.”

The three of them were standing by the doors to the pickup now, and Seven leaned in the driver’s side door. A smile brightened on his face and he pulled the door open and swung his body in. Lavern had left the keys in the ignition. Sixty-nine leapt into the back of the bed and began to rock the truck on its shocks, banging his fists down on the roof of the cab. Lavern hoped he didn’t dent the roof. He heard the boys’ laughter and the pitch of their voices, high but strong. Fifty-three trotted around the passenger side. The laughter died in the wind and Sixty-nine stopped rocking the truck as Seven exited and slammed the door.

“Piece of shit!” he shouted as he moved to the front of the truck.

From his angle Lavern could only see the back of the truck, and the boys disappeared as they moved to look under the hood. He wished he’d turned the truck around, given himself a better angle, and he briefly wondered what else he could have forgotten. Fifty-three returned to their Hemi and started it, pulling up next to the Ford and parking side by side. He emerged from the driver’s side of the Hemi and reached under the seat, coming up with jumper cables. He stepped in front of the Hemi and flung one end at Seven. With both hoods lifted, Lavern sat back and waited. He had left his truck with his own jumper cables, but it was even better if they blew their set. He had changed the terminals on his battery. He wasn’t sure if the battery would blow or even catch fire, but he was sure it would leave them stranded.

Fifty-three got back into the Hemi and turned it over. There was a loud pop and Sixty-nine jumped away from the hood towards the back of the Ford.

“Shit. Shit. Turn it off. What the fuck!”

“What happened?”

Their voices were louder now, the wind carrying their frustration to Lavern.

Seven came around the side of the Hemi and hefted Fifty-three out of the seat. He sat in the truck for a few moments, presumably to start the truck again, and then slowly exited, grasping the door by the open window panel and slamming it shut.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He whirled around and punched Fifty-three. Fifty-three stumbled back, looked more shocked than hurt, and grabbed at Seven to steady himself.

Sixty-nine walked around the front of the Hemi, dragging jumper cables. He shook his head, then laughed and patted Fifty-three, stepping past him to take a leak behind the truck. The other two boys pulled out their cell phones. They walked back and forth in the ravine, hands held up towards the sky, squinting at the sun and shaking their heads as if they were trying to hail God for a ride.

Lavern had forgotten that they would probably have cell phones, but since the boys had picked the ravine, he was golden. He figured it was time to ratchet things up a notch, so he lifted his rifle and took aim. His first shot lodged in the open hood of the Hemi.

The boys ducked instinctively, then looked at each other as if wondering if they really heard a gunshot or if the battery had finally blown. Lavern gave it a moment, as the boys looked up, then chuckled and stood tall. He fired again, this time aiming for the dirt about thirty feet past where Sixty-nine had just wet a small patch of ground. This time they scattered, Fifty-three and Seven running for the front of the trucks, Sixty-nine running for the wall of the ravine and diving into the dust at the edge.

Their shouting carried up the walls of the ravine.

Seven raised a hand over the hood of the truck. “Hey! Shit! Crazy old man! Don’t kill us. Really! You’ll get your stuff back.”

Lavern was impressed. The quarterback really did have some guts. This time he took out the back window of their Hemi.

The .22 rifle would make some noise, but the bullets weren’t even legal to bring down a deer. The small end fired cartridge probably wouldn’t kill them. And he was a good shot.

“What the fuck you want from us? We said we’d give you your shit back! Christ. Don’t kill us.”

He lowered his rifle and waited. Sixty-nine was still whimpering in the dirt. It took fifteen minutes for Fifty-three to push from the side of the truck and scamper over to Sixty-nine. He nodded at him but focused on picking up rocks. He clutched a large one in his right hand. Another ten minutes went by, and Seven finally ran out from behind the truck. They seemed to be formulating a plan to move up the ravine with rocks as weapons and try to escape. It was their only option, and he was surprised that it had taken almost fifteen minutes to decide on it. They couldn’t stay with the truck indefinitely and they couldn’t scale the walls, so they were effectively trapped. He needed them to make their way up the right side of the ravine, though, rather than the left, so he fired a few well placed shots—two back towards the truck and one ricocheting off the wall near them. They scattered again, moving to the wall nearest him, which offered them the best cover. He thought they would have figured that out sooner.

The boys moved quickly now, and Lavern slung his rifle and pack over his shoulder and picked his way along the top of the ridge ahead of them. He was beginning to bake in the sun. Sweat dripped down his back into his ass crack and his clothes were sagging on his body. Even belted, they were loose after too many years of making his own meals.

He stashed his gear behind another tree, grabbed his old pet carrier, and carefully made his way down the mouth of the ravine, trying to hold his breath. Since the boys were climbing uphill, he figured they were even. Youth uphill vs. old man downhill. He hoped they dropped their rocks before they reached him, but it had to be done. He placed the carrier by the tree, opened it and backed away, jiggling a bell.

The boys came up on Simon quickly, almost before Lavern could hide himself behind a large boulder. Simon was good with people but was startled by the boys and let loose a spray.

“Skunk!” one called out.

The three boys went hurtling over one another towards the opposite wall. Fifty-three lofted a large rock in Simon’s direction, but it rattled off the cage. Simon sprayed again and then raced behind the tree. Pungent, rotten air filled the ravine. Simon says, “Run away,” Lavern thought and smiled.

Now Lavern stepped out with his pistol, more acclimated to the smell than others, but still trying to keep his stomach from turning. He knew the smell would dissipate in a few days, after some scouring in the shower and some tomato juice in his hair and beard. It didn’t matter if people stayed away from him for a week, but for the kids it was a different story.

“Boys,” Lavern said, his voice scratchy.

“Please, mister, please don’t kill us. We were just foolin.” Fifty-three said.

Seven scowled. “What do you want? We told you we’d bring back your shit. No wonder people leave you the fuck alone.”

“Shut up, man. He’s got a gun,” Fifty-three hissed.

“He’s been shooting at us this whole time. We’d be dead by now if he wanted to kill us. He just wanted us to stink all fuckin’ week and make us look like fools.”

Lavern frowned. “Maybe I just wanted to make y’all look like fools before I killed ya.” He lowered the hammer and leveled the gun.

Seven blanched and looked down. All the boys were staring into the dirt now.

“Get up,” he ordered, and they scrambled to their feet.

Lavern had planned a speech for the boys, thought it the manly, fatherly thing to do. Joanna had always wanted children. Told him he’d be a good father. Look at what at what I got myself into now, he wanted to tell her. These boys hadn’t learned anything. He’d just enhanced the story they’d tell to their friends. Maybe they’d change things up about how they pulled one over on him, but they would keep bullying the little kids, ignoring the ugly girls, doing the things they did. And, he didn’t really care. It was just too much trouble and too far away.

Lavern sighed. “I want my stuff back tonight. 10 pm at my place. Don’t scratch that telescope or it’ll be your ass. You hear me? And bring a fresh battery for your truck.”

“Yessir,” they mumbled. Lavern stepped aside and swung the rifle out to the side motioning for them to go.

Seven looked up at Lavern and lunged in his direction, arms in the air, making one last manly show. Lavern jerked in surprise and pulled the trigger, the bullet missing Seven and lodging in calf of Sixty-nine, who fell to the ground and began to howl.

“What the hell!” Seven jumped back and Fifty-three ducked.

“Shit. Look what you boys made me do.” Lavern moved towards Sixty-nine, who tried to scramble away, his eyes wide in shock as blood pooled black in the dust.

“You shot him, you crazy fucker!” Seven blocked Lavern. “Stay away from him.”

Lavern moved to the side, trying to get past. “Aw, hell, he’ll be alright,” he said, taking a step forward. “Put some pressure on it,” he said looking past Seven. Then he turned back to the boys, “Just need to get him to a doctor and get it patched up. That’s all. Don’t think he’ll play this weekend.”

“Think this is funny?”

Sixty-nine moaned and rocked back and forth on the ground, holding his leg.

“Lemme take a look. I didn’t mean to shoot him. You jumped up on me.” Lavern held the rifle out to the side. “Was an accident. Jesus almighty. Like you’ve never seen blood before.”

As Lavern moved towards Sixty-nine and lowered his rifle, Fifty-three hurled a large rock in his direction. It hit Lavern from the side, the rock glancing off his temple and knocking his glasses away. The bright glare of the sun off the rocks blinded him for a moment, and in a rush of wind, he was taken to the ground. He dropped the rifle on impact and was thankful that it didn’t go off. He waited for a rock to come down upon his face and finish it, but instead he was pummeled with punches and kicks to his ribs and body. He was grateful for his layers muffling the blows.

“Accident this, you freak.” Another kick to his ribs and then a slap to his head, across his ears, which left them ringing.

His eyes slowly adjusted, and he saw their silhouettes through his squinted eyes. He knew that the gun was on him, and he wished he hadn’t loaded so many shells last night. Seven reached in and stripped his cap and hood, ripping some of his hair from the roots in the process.

“We got Old Man Vampire! He’s ours.”

“He’s whiter than the crack of my ass. Let’s tie him up and leave him out here,” Fifty-three said, smiling. He looked to Seven and Sixty-nine for support.

When Fifty-three looked away, Lavern reached back to his belt for his pistol and leveled it at Fifty-three. “Might wanna rethink that idea.”

“There’s more of us than there is of you,” he retorted.

“I’ve already had a life, how ‘bout you?” Lavern replied.

Seven raised his hands and tossed the hood at Lavern’s feet as Fifty-three lowered the weapon and placed it on the ground. Lavern nodded as he rose from the ground, and Fifty-three nudged it over with his foot.

Lavern quickly slung the rifle over his shoulder and retrieved his cap and hood, keeping the pistol trained on the boys.

“I’m gonna go fix my truck and then I’m gonna drive over here. You can either carry his ass back or get in the bed of the truck and I’ll drop you at the doctor’s. Everyone needs to calm the hell down.” He stood and grabbed his cap and hood, pulling the cap on over his head with one hand, adjusting it first in the front, then tugging it back. He put his sunglasses on and hoped it would be enough for a few minutes. The hood was too cumbersome to put on with one hand, and he didn’t trust the boys.

After he walked back to the truck, Lavern readjusted his battery, lowered the hood, and turned his key. His engine stuttered but started, and he slowly turned around in the ravine and headed towards the boys. He sat in the truck with the pistol on the dash while they lifted Sixty-nine, yelping, onto the hot tailgate. Then they both jumped in and dragged him safely into the bed. Lavern shifted into gear and drove them into town, dropping them quietly outside the emergency room. Before pulling away, he looked over at the boys. “Ten o’clock tonight,” he said and then nodded at Sixty-nine. “Sorry ‘bout the leg.”

He stopped at the end of the street and tugged his hood on over his hair, stretching it forward, feeling the softened heat beneath his fingers. The hood snagged on his skin, and he tried to roll it down gently, pulling it away from his face until he had covered all the way to his chin. He returned to the ravine, threw some kibble on the ground for Simon to come out from behind the tree, and then pulled in front of the Hemi and got out his chains. After hitching the boys’ vehicle behind his Ford, he returned for his other supplies and drove back home. He parked the trucks, let Simon back out, and headed towards his work shed. He was tired, felt run down, and wished that he could lay his head in Joanna’s lap like so many years ago. His skin, tight and itchy, was swollen and irritated from his movement and sweat. Welting burns flared on his face and neck, and he knew at least one rib was probably broken. It was best to keep his hands busy so as not to think about the pain or wonder if the boys would return with the sheriff or with a gun of their own. Instead, he went outside and closed his eyes listening for birds, deciding that he should put out birdseed in the evening and see if he could catch a few more songs in the early or late daylight hours, anything besides an owl. He walked back and forth through the woods, comparing the moss on the trees and the colors of green and brown left behind with the sun, until he found himself in the back corner under the sugar maples.

He hadn’t been back here in awhile, and now stood over Joanna’s grave uneasily. He had planned to buy her a headstone, properly mark the grave. But somehow he hadn’t gotten around to it. And now, the granite and concrete, the engraved dates, seemed like they would change the memories he had of her, that they would be trapped inside the stone. They would bring his mind back to the hospital beds and the beeping, to Joanna asking him to stop the meds, let her go. The stone would be so final and he would lose all trace of her and only be left with the hard, solid, chunk of dead material.

He fingered the sugar maples as his tears fogged his glasses and rimmed the neoprene hood around his face. The maple farthest from him looked sickly. The others had grown up, leaving one in the shade, suffering. It had grown thick instead of tall, fat on its base and now starving from lack of sun. The light was getting long and darkness was coming, but he placed his palm against the tree and said a prayer for it, then made his way back to the shed for his chainsaw and tools. He felled the top of the tree and dragged it to the side, stepping lightly around the grave, and spent the rest of evening hours carving the delicate base of the sugar maple. The sun beat down on him, even as he stood in the shade, and he knew that his tight skin was being damaged further, that he would have to apply salve for weeks across the tender surface of his body. The wood was much softer than the pine that he usually used, and he had to use his delicate chisels much sooner, only flaking away the surface bark with the saw. He worked slowly, slicing away single strips at a time in small patterns.

His back ached from his awkward upright position. In his shed, his wood was always held in a vise where he could work with it easily. Here, the tree stump remained upright and he crouched and leaned to get the right angles. Because of his ribs, he favored his left side and his clothing bunched at his arms and waist. He tugged at his sleeve, trying to spread the wrinkled layers at his armpit by pulling on the cuffs, as shavings slid from his fingertips under the cloth. The shavings grated into his soft skin, but he clenched his jaw and went back to work. He started with the hair, choosing to capture it when she was young and it was long and flowed down to her back. Gaining confidence as he worked, he made his way slowly to the face. After the sun set, he peeled back his hood, wincing as his skin stuck in places, and began to shed his layers. By the time he pulled his third shirt off and switched the hose for a regular cotton tee, his skin flashed hot against the cool breeze. He tied a bandana across his face to protect his blisters from the sawdust and refocused on the wood.

They say that carvers only reveal what is already there, and although he thought capturing her visage might feel forced or that he would be unable to finish—leaving it like Michelangelo’s prisoners sculptures where people were trapped in stone—the wood fell away perfectly, the cuttings gave way to her high cheekbones, easy smile, and crinkled eyes. He carved a few smile lines; although she would have punched him, he wanted it that way—to think of her aging beside him.

He stopped and looked at the sky, following the top of Cassiopeia’s W up to Andromeda and looked to the haze to its left where, if only he had his telescope, he could view the galaxy and take comfort in the multitudes of stars and the limitless expanse of sky. He wished for a shooting star, to watch it streak across the sky flaming to its end.

He was sanding by flashlight when headlights flashed over him. He looked up startled at his grizzly staring down at him. Seven was riding shotgun with Fifty-three. Sixty-nine wasn’t with them. He smelled the skunk now, much stronger than the scent on his own body, and it brought a smile to his face.

Seven got out of the truck and approached him, hands buried in a varsity jacket. The brake lights were already on in his buddy’s truck and Lavern could tell that Fifty-three was debating on leaving his friend to fend for himself.

“You gonna shoot me?” Lavern asked, waiting to see the boy’s hands.

Seven shrugged. “My pop always tells me, ‘Don’t start something you can’t finish.” He paused and met Lavern’s eyes for a moment. “Guess you damn well finished it.” He kicked at the dirt with his boot and shrugged. “Looks like you’ll be tore up for awhile anyway,” he said, staring at Lavern’s welts and blisters glistening in the beam from the headlights.

“What’s your name?” Lavern asked.

“Warren Shockley. Live right over that hill,” he said nodding to the left with his head.

“Used to know your folks.” Lavern took a step forward. “Your friend alright?”

“Out for the season. He’s pretty pissed about missing homecoming, but he’s not gonna die or nothing. Talked him out of pressin’ charges. When they asked, we claimed it was just a huntin’ accident. Figured we’d all end up in jail that way and sit the bench for homecoming. Even without Jake, we got a real chance against Laurel High.”

Lavern nodded.

“We cool?” Warren asked.

Lavern stuck out his pale hand covered in dust and wood particles. Warren uneasily stepped forward and shook it.

“Won’t bother you again,” he said.

Lavern looked at the grizzly. “You can keep that,” he said. “I just want the telescope.”

Warren looked at him and cocked his head. “What am I gonna do with a grizzly bear, Old Man?”

“Dunno. You’ll keep it though.”

“You sure are strange. Not in the way they think.”

Lavern pressed his lips together, the ends turned up slightly. Mainly the grizzly was heavy and he didn’t want to help them unload it, but there was also a part of him that thought they would remember. That Warren would tell stories about Lavern someday to his kids and point to that grizzly and say, See?

The boys unloaded his telescope without speaking and began to unhitch the truck and install the battery. Lavern let them work in silence and turned back to his carving. The headlights caught the edge of her face, the beams dancing across her hair, and he knew that she would be beautiful in the sunlight.