An Early Winter (8 page)

"He must have hated you!" Tim shouts after the retreating back. "My father must have hated you. Do you know that?"

His grandfather doesn't answer that question, either. He just keeps walking, keeps moving ahead around the rim of the lake until the trees and the occasional low bushes close in behind him, obscuring him from view.

Tim waits until even the crackle of twigs, of dry leaves beneath his grandfather's feet is silenced. Then he begins walking, too.

He was right. He supposes he should feel good about that. He was right.

But he has never felt worse in his life.

Home!
Tim touches the side of the camper almost reverently. The walk was so long—the hike around the end of the lake must have taken at least an hour—that he'd begun to wonder if he was ever going to see their campsite and the old pickup camper again.

The last of the sunset has drained from the sky over the lake. Silver, then pewter, now charcoal gray. Soon the sky will be a dark navy blue ... on its way to black. There is no sign of a moon yet.

Tim scans the campsite. No sign of his grandfather, either. He walked on ahead at a steady enough pace that Tim never caught up with him. Not that he tried.

The old man is probably inside the camper already, eating his stinky salami.

Tim wraps his arms around himself and shivers. The wind has grown stronger, more insistent, instead of dropping as it so often does around sunset. The lake is dotted with whitecaps. The air is definitely cooler. Tim's jeans are wet, his feet, too, and even parts of his sweatshirt. On a night like this, his clothes would barely be enough to warm if they were dry.

He steps away from the camper. What will he say to his grandfather? What is there left to say except to repeat the question.
Why? Why did you send my father away?

Would it make any difference, even if he answered? Leo Palmer abused his son, yelled at him, called him names. He admitted that he did. And then, just when someone was on his way into the world who was really going to need Franklin, he told him to leave. What was wrong with the man?

He would never forget that his grandfather did that. Never forget and never forgive.

A gust sets the trees creaking and moaning overhead, brings waves to slap at the shore.

Tim shivers again. He has to go in there and face his grandfather. What will he say to him? What is there left to say to him? No wonder everyone has been so reluctant all these years to talk about Franklin, to say anything about him at all. Talking about him might have forced them to admit the truth, that Granddad was to blame for Tim's never having seen his father ... even once. For his father's never having seen him.

Tim moves around to the camper door. Funny that Granddad is in there without a light. There is no electric hookup at this campground, but they always used to keep a gas lantern tucked away in the cupboard, and it must be dark enough inside to need it now.

As soon as they both have something to eat, Granddad can drive back to Sheldon, back to the house. Once the grownups are through with the fit they're sure to throw—funny how quickly people can go from scared to angry—Tim will tell them the truth. And the truth is that he's ready to go home. Back to Minneapolis. Back with his mother and with Paul.

Granddad doesn't need him here anymore. If anything is clear, that is.

Besides, Granddad has no one to blame but himself. Even if he does have Alzheimer's, he can't use that as an excuse for the way he treated his son. Franklin has been gone for years!

Tim shakes himself. Why is he standing out here, getting colder and colder? And what is he afraid of, anyway? Certainly not a forgetful old man.

But when he steps onto the bottom step and puts his hand on the doorknob, just lays his palm on the cold metal, he doesn't even try to turn it. Because he knows.

His grandfather isn't in there. The camper is too quiet. The windows are too dark. Even the wind that had been rushing about a moment before is suddenly too still. But since there is nothing else to do, he turns the handle anyway. Or tries to turn it.

The door is locked.

Tim steps back down to the uneven ground and scans the darkening campground. Empty. He and his grandfather are the only campers here. They haven't seen another soul since they left Melvin's.

Where else could Granddad have gone? He was walking ahead, following the lake. Even he couldn't get lost in the woods following the perimeter of the lake.

Tim executes a slow circle, searching the campground again. His gaze falls on the outhouse in the center of the loop of campsites, a rustic building designed to blend in with the landscape. Except for the smell. That never quite "blends."

Tim smiles at the thought, and the cold certainty of disaster that has been clutching at his throat loosens its hold. The outhouse. That's where Granddad is, of course. He'll be back any moment now. All Tim has to do is wait. He sinks slowly to the camper steps, uncertain whether he has chosen to sit or if his knees have simply given way.

What would he have done if Granddad had truly been gone? If he'd found himself alone in this forest? He won't even think about that. He can't.

A pale egg-shaped moon rises from behind the trees on the other side of the lake. It lightens the surrounding sky, glimmers on the surface of the water. But beneath the trees surrounding the camper, the shadows only grow more dark.

Tim scuffs at the ground with the heel of his wet sneaker. His shoes aren't sodden any longer, but they are certainly far from dry. His clothes adhere to his skin with a clammy grip. The night air is damp, too, so that the persistent wind is little use in drying them.

Why is the old man taking so long?

Old man.
He's never used such language about his grandfather before. Not even in his mind. But then he has never felt about him the way he feels today.

How could Granddad have treated his own son that way?

And why is he taking so long in the outhouse?

After another long minute, Tim gets up and heads for the privy. He'll knock on the door, tell him to hurry. If he, Tim, could only drive—if he even had a clue about driving, especially a truck with a stick shift—he would take himself home and leave Granddad dreaming in the stink house. That's what the two of them have always called it, the stink house.

But as he approaches the privy, his steps grow increasingly leaden. Is it possible that he is wrong about his grandfather being there, too?

He stops in front of the outhouse door, closes his eyes, pleads under his breath. "Please. Let him be here." He doesn't know who he is talking to, really. Whoever it is out there who invented Alzheimer's disease?

Tim knows, even before the door rasps open, releasing the dark smell hiding behind it, that his plea won't be answered, and he is right.

The privy is empty.

He slams the door and turns back, his gaze skimming the shadowy campground. Where is Granddad? Where could he be? He couldn't have gotten lost on the way back to their campsite. That isn't possible.

Unless he didn't want to get back to the campsite.

Unless hearing those words—"He must have hated you. Do you know that?"—made him want to be lost.

Tim's heart pounds. His breath comes in short gasps.

Half running, half stumbling, he heads back to the camper. Maybe the door isn't really locked! Maybe his grandfather is there by now.

But, of course, he is wrong yet again. The handle won't turn. And when he pounds on the door, there is no response. Tim leans his forehead against the cold metal, trying to breathe, trying to think. A mournful hoot sounds from the branch just over his head, and he jumps away from the camper, letting out a small, strangled scream.

Can the owl tell from hearing him that he's too tall to be a mouse?

He wants to run. Anywhere. Everywhere. But he forces himself to stand instead, forces his breathing to slow. "It's all right," he says, speaking out loud. "Just be still. Everything is all right." It's what his grandfather used to say to his animal patients when they were frightened. "Be still now. Everything is all right."

Tim's hammering heart is the last to obey the order.

What should he do? He can't search the forest. Can't even begin. It stretches for miles and miles all around. He doesn't even have any idea how many miles. Grown men have gotten lost in there, hunters who go into the forest in full daylight with compasses and topographical maps and guns, with all kinds of aids for surviving, for finding their way out again. There is only one direction he knows for certain, the gravel road that leads out, that leads back to Melvin's.

It is several miles back to Melvin's store. Five or six, at least. Two or three miles to reach the edge of the forest. Another two or three to the corner and Melvin's store. And Tim is already cold and hungry and tired.

His grandfather must be cold and hungry and tired, too. Probably even more than he is.

Will Granddad die in the forest? Is that what he wants, to die?

A whimper escapes, forces its way out between Tim's lips.
I didn't mean. I didn't...

The silent shadow passing over him sends him into a crouch, his arms over his head for protection.

He rises slowly. Granddad would laugh, seeing him this way. Afraid of an owl. Afraid not even of the owl but of the owl's shadow.

"Granddad." The cry is thin, useless, only another tremor in the rising wind. "GRANDDAD! WHERE ARE YOU?"

He might have been walking for hours. It probably hasn't been that long, but Tim's feet and legs ache, and the night has grown so black that the stars are bright pinholes in the shroud of the sky. If it weren't for the moon, he would have trouble even making out the boundaries of the narrow gravel road he has been following. As it is, the faint light is insufficient to keep him from stepping into a rut now and then. He has turned his left ankle twice, and now it throbs.

He walks on, almost relishing the pain. It takes his mind off the thunder rumbling in the distance. Off the way his sodden jeans chafe his skin. Off the rawness of his throat when he calls, again and again, "Granddad!" It almost takes his mind off the silence that comes back to him after each call ... like an accusation.

How could he have spoken to his grandfather that way? How could he have let him go on ahead? How could he even have encouraged him to go camping? He came here to help, but he has made everything worse.

Whatever happened between his grandfather and Franklin, Granddad has always been good to him.

He attended every father-son scout banquet Tim ever was involved in, even when he had to close the clinic early to do it. He was always at his Little League games, too. He taught Tim to fish, to build a campfire, to roll a sleeping bag so small it could actually be stuffed back into its original bag.

When Grandma wasn't looking, he even used to sneak Tim ripe olives from the table while they were enduring the endless wait for holiday dinners.

"Granddad!" he calls again.

A dark shape lumbers across in front of him, several yards down the road. Tim stops abruptly, peering after it. A bear? No, too small for a bear. Too big to be anything he wants to meet, though. Probably a raccoon. He shivers. Raccoons' masked faces are comical, appealing, but something about their profile, the rounded back, the lowered head, makes them sinister. He would almost rather encounter a bear. The black bears they have here in Wisconsin rarely bother people.

He wonders if a bear's penis really is bone. But Granddad said it is, so it must be.

For the first time, it occurs to him to wonder, too, what Franklin did to deserve being called "useless"—to deserve being sent away.

He sighs and looks off into the dense trees on each side of the road. Maybe he should have retraced his steps around the end of the lake instead of starting out on the road toward Melvin's. Could he possibly have passed his grandfather on the way back to the campground without seeing him?

Tim shakes his head, moves on. If he had gone back instead of heading out for the store, it would have taken him more than an hour to return to the place where he had tied the raft to the sapling. And he was pretty sure he wouldn't have found Granddad along the way if he had. Then he would have been left to walk the entire distance back to the campground again, this time in full dark, before being able to start for help. That's the important thing—to find help. He may be a dumb little kid, but he's not so dumb as to think this is a situation he can manage by himself.

He keeps walking. His feet feel like clumps of concrete. Wet concrete. Wet and cold.

He shouldn't have blamed Granddad for being mean to Franklin. He knows nothing of what happened between the two of them, but he knows his grandfather. He is kind, gentle, fair. More than one of Tim's friends has told him how lucky he is to have Dr. Leo as a grandfather, as a father, really. And he'd never needed to be told.

"Granddad!" he calls.

Silence.

He puts one heavy foot in front of the other. When he doesn't hold his jaw tight, his teeth chatter in machine-gun bursts. Maybe he's going to die. It's silly to think about that, though. No one dies from a little bit of cold, a little bit of hunger, a little bit of being lost.

Granddad won't die, either.

Will he?

Besides, even if Granddad is lost, Tim isn't. He knows where he is. He knows where he's going. To Melvin's to get help for his grandfather. Being lost and having a long way to go are two entirely different things.

The wind sets the trees to groaning, rattles their leaves. The leaves sound dry, dead, though most of them haven't even begun to color yet. The whole world is rushing toward winter.

Off in the distance beyond the lake, lightning flashes. A mutter of thunder follows. Tim counts. A thousand and one. A thousand and two ... A thousand and seven. Seven seconds between the lightning and the thunder. That means the storm is seven miles away. Maybe it will pass by instead of coming this way. Maybe he'll be lucky, and the rain will rain itself out on some farmer's crops. But this is harvest time. The farmers probably don't want rain, either.