Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club.

Dear Dad,

I’m thinking about this thing you’re having a hard time telling me. I’m thinking that the obvious thing you would say to me would be that I should just get it off my chest. But that sounds kind of dumb. If it was that easy, you would have told me already. I’m trying to imagine what could be so bad. I can imagine some pretty bad stuff and thinking of you doing some of it freaks me out. Maybe it would be better if you didn’t tell me. Maybe I’m not the right person to tell.

What can I do to help you?

I kind of feel like a dork talking like this.

Speaking of dorks, our school has this thing called a pep club. Pep. That has got to be one of the most stupid words in the world. I don’t want to be part of any club called pep. Anyway, the pep club does stuff like organize the pep assemblies, which are pretty dumb, but better than going to class. You get to watch cheerleaders do their stupid cheers. Cheerleaders are kind of ridiculous, but they’re pretty hot.

The pep club is also putting on a cookie contest. Guess who the judges will be? The teachers. Guess who one of the teacher judges is? Mr. Schick.

This seems like a pretty good chance for revenge. A little advice right now would be helpful.

Your son,

Trevor

I’ll try, Trevor. Or I’ll try to try.

Dear Trevor,

O O O O. I don’t know how to tell you about my shame. I’ve been carrying it around so long in silence, I don’t know how to give a voice to it. I honestly don’t know if I can tell you.

I think if I sat in my shack with the door barred and tried to just say it out loud to the board and batten walls, I would fail.  The thought of actually writing it down to paper where you could read it seems impossible.

I’ll try, Trevor. Or I’ll try to try. For now, I’ll tell you that it’s about my family. About our family.

Trevor, give me time.

Dad

She came up all sputtering.

Dear Dad,

Mom says I need to wait another week until I go down the Green River, because it’s been raining all week and the river’s at floodstage. So maybe next Saturday. This weekend I just hung out in the neighborhood.

After church on Sunday, Rhonda, Barry Barton and Rhonda’s friend, Tess and I walked way down the beach. Tess is my age. She lives across the street in that old farmhouse the Cummings were in when you were alive.  Tess gets really good grades and looks like it. She wears little round glasses that make her seem like a character from one of those American Girl stories Rhonda used to read. Tess is taller than I am and goofy but nice. Her family doesn’t even have a TV, which is weird, but that’s probably why she gets good grades. It’s also probably why she’s goofy. Not because she doesn’t have a TV, but because she’s from one of those kinds of families that doesn’t have a TV. Kids from those families are always kind of weird.

I don’t really know if Tess is pretty. She definitely has boobs, but most of the time I don’t even notice that. Or those.

Anyway, we walked way down the beach . Rhonda and I were still wearing our church clothes, so Mom yelled at us not to get wet. We said we wouldn’t, but we always get wet whenever we go to the beach. Always. And Mom always tells us not to and always yells at us when we come back. But we still do the same thing next time. On Sunday, we got soaked.

We walked almost all the way down to the boat launch, which is about a mile and a half, I guess. And we had to go around all those big riprap bulkheads on the way. By the time we got there, the tide was all the way in to the bulkheads, which meant we had to wade back in water up past our waists. You know, at first you try to stay dry, but once you slip off one rock, you kind of just say screw it, because you know that once you get wet, you’re in trouble with Mom anyway.

I was the first one to get wet when I tried to jump from one big rock to another and missed. Barry made the jump and stayed dry. Rhonda missed like me. Tess totally slipped and went all the way under, head and everything. She came up all sputtering. She kept saying, “Does someone have something dry I can wipe my glasses on?”

It was freezing cold, but felt good in a laughing sort of way. And I don’t care if Tess is kind of goofy, because when it comes to neighborhood friends, nice is pretty much all that matters and she’s nice. Not sure that same rule works at school.

When we got home, Mom yelled at us. Even that didn’t bug me.

Dad, about this shame thing you talked about in your letter. You’ve mentioned this before. What the heck are you talking about? I mean, if I can talk to you about Tess’ boobs, is seems like you should be able to tell me pretty much anything. I promise not to share it with Mom unless you want me to.

Your son,

Trevor

I can still feel those red lines of pain.

Dear Trevor,

 Is it wrong to want revenge on Mr. Schick? Yes, it probably is. Does Mr. Schick deserve to have some kind of justice meted out on him? Yes, he probably does.

 But we all do. I’m getting my—what should I call it? Punishment? Comeuppance? Whatever you call it, I’m getting mine right now.

 When I was about eight years old, I tried to steal a piece of ribbon candy out of my mom’s candy jar. The candy was all stuck together and when I pulled on a piece, I lifted the whole jar off the dining room table. It crashed to the ground and shattered in a million pieces. Mom—your grandma—was in the backyard, so I grabbed a broom, swept the whole mess up and stuck it as far down into the garbage can as I could.

Your grandma discovered the missing jar after lunch when she went to calm down her sweet tooth. She asked me about it. I lied—poorly. She got the truth out of me in about thirty seconds–I didn’t learn to lie well until years later. Then grandma whipped me with a switch until my little butt was bright red. I can still feel those red lines of pain on my eight-year-old backside.

 With you and your brothers and sister, we were more “enlightened” parents. No beatings. Just time-outs. When Steffan lied to us about throwing eggs at Mrs. Johnson’s house, we sat him on the stairs for a couple of hours until he fessed up and told us the truth.

 That’s what’s happening to me right now. I’m in a time-out. Problem is I don’t know how to get out of it. I have so much to confess. Who do I tell?

 I have a great shame, Trevor. I deserve more than a time-out. Even if I confess, who could ever forgive me?

 Dad

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Dear Dad,

So I had my last basketball game last night. And guess what? I played. For a total of 45 seconds.

The other team was up by about ten points. Mr. Schick called a time out. When he said I was going in, he had a big smile on his face, like he was doing me some kind of favor. Wow, how generous, Mr. Schick. Thank you for your kindness.

Donnie Joad got the throw-in and brought the ball up past halfcourt. I was open and Donnie threw the ball to me. I was gonna pass it right away, before I screwed up, but no one was open. I saw a lane to the basket, so I drove in for a layup. I went about two steps when this big, freckly gorilla on the other team slapped me right on the side of the face. I didn’t even see him until I was laying on the ground looking up at his gorilla legs.

The ref called a foul and I got two shots. I stood at the line, bouncing the ball and staring at the rim. “Screw it,” I thought and I chucked the ball toward the basket. It went in. It even made a swoosh sound. I missed the second one, but could have cared less. I made a point and figured, for a second, I was the king of just about everthing I could think of. Then Mr. Schick pulled me back out. We went on to lose the game by 13.

For the entire season I played less than one minute and I made one point. One point per minute, I figure, is better than anyone on the team.

At the end of the game, Mr. Schick had us all gather round him at the center of the court. He got all serious and held his stupid red baseball cap in both hands. He told us how proud he was of us and reminded us what a great season we had. By which I guess he means that it’s a great season when you lose three-fourths of your games. For me, the season made two things clear to me: The first is that Mr. Schick is a jerk. The second thing I can’t remember, so I guess I really just learned the one thing about Mr. Schick.

I’d like to get him back somehow. Is that wrong?

Your son,

Trevor

Everyone gets quiet and everyone waits for it.

Dear Trevor,

 Thank your mother for me for allowing us to continue.

 Your future has endless opportunities. Every day, you walk out your door into this big, smelly, beautiful world and who the hell knows what might happen to you? You might kiss a girl or get beat up. You might float your canoe down the Green River all the way to the Puget Sound.

 My fate has been simplified. I can stay here, looking out into the fog. Or I can get on the boat. I don’t want to stay. But the bloody boat and the bloody hag who steers it both repel me.

 Today I asked Gordon to join me for lunch at the Laughing Gull. I knew the fish and chips would be bland as ever, but I wanted the sensation of chewing at least. Gordon and I walked down to the restaurant in silence. I never noticed before how quiet Gordon is. I guess that when Carl was here, I could take Gordon in smaller doses. Now I depend on his company, but there’s not much to it. He was a professor, but he’s no longer luminary, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t exactly glow with wisdom. He’s like a book of quotations. Classical sound bites. They sound smarter than they really are. Even so, I wish he would say more of them. I wish he would say more of anything.

 While we were chewing away, the well-dressed black man came in and sat with us. He ordered a cup of coffee, then cringed as he said the words. He looked out the window into the fog. “When does it come back?”

 “The boat? You’ll know when it’s coming back.”

 “How?”

 “Everyone knows. And everyone gets quiet and everyone waits for it.”

 “Terminat hora diem. Terminat auctor opus,” said Gordon.

 “Huh?” said the well-dressed black man.

 “The hour finishes the day; the author finishes his work.”

 “What the hell’s that mean? What work?”

 “Just ignore him,” I said, even though I had the same questions.

 Dad

Mom says we can keep writing each other.

Dear Dad,

 First of all, Mom says we can keep writing each other, and she’ll butt out. Don’t worry about her seeing this letter, because she agreed to only look at the letters I show her on purpose. She is thinking about writing a note to you directly, even though she told me not to tell you that. She said she’s not sure she can do it. I think she means that—well, you probably know what she means.

 We just got back from our little vacation yesterday. It was pretty fun. We stayed in a hotel and rode waterslides and Rhett stopped acting like a big-shot senior for a couple of days. We ate all our meals in restaurants, mostly in this one called Country Cousins, which had a huge menu, so all of us could find something on it we liked. I mostly ordered breakfast food. They had really good waffles. Mom said it was almost like home cooking, which seems weird. Why would you go to a restaurant where the food tasted like you made it at home? By the second day, Mom said she was getting tired of eating out, which she says I’ll understand someday. Anyway, it wasn’t like we went to Australia or anything fancy like that, but it was still a pretty fun vacation.

 Spring break is over, so now I’m back in school. I’m writing this letter to you during my English class with Mrs. Henry, who gave us some time to do journaling, which means she doesn’t have anything else ready for us to do. That’s OK by me. Mrs. Henry is still my favorite teacher. She asks how things are with me sometimes, because I think she knows something weird is still going on. But she’s not very nosy.

 I never did canoe down the Green River with Donnie yet, and he asked me about it again today. I’ll have to ask Mom about it again. Donnie says it would be the perfect time to do it, because all the spring rain would make the river really fast. Makes sense to me.

 Hold on. Mrs. Henry said we need to finish up. So write me back and say whatever you want. It will be just between you and me unless you want Mom to read it.

 Your son,

 Trevor

Mom says hi.

Dear Dad,

Mom says hi. She says not to worry so much about how she feels. She says you were always a world-class worrier. She doesn’t think of you as some kind of stalker. I think mostly she’s trying to figure out what the right thing to do is here. What God would want her to do. I think she’s afraid we’re kind of meddling in dangerous spiritual stuff and she’s not sure that’s OK.

She says she’s thinking about it and praying about it. She also says to tell you not to freak out when you don’t hear from me for the rest of the week, because we’re going to some water park for spring break. I’m out of school until next week. Mom, Rhett, Rhonda and me are going. I love not going to school. I also kind of like a break from my friends. So I’ll write you on Monday, assuming Mom lets me. Until then, be good and don’t do anything crazy.

Your son,

Tom

I hope you let the letters continue, Ev.

Dear Trevor,
 
I was kind of hoping Evelyn would say hello. But I understand I’m in no position to ask for anything. I’ve invaded her home without her permission. I’ve taken advantage of her hospitality.
 
It probably seems pretty bizarre, too. In her position, I would likely assume the letters were all fake. All the work of some sort of sick predator or some other weird thing. It would be hard work making me believe that they could actually be coming from beyond the grave. I’ve never been very good at believing. The funny thing is that I’m still not. I mean, I’m here. I’m in it. I am officially supernatural now and I still doubt.
 
Your mom, on the other hand, has always actively looked for the miraculous. Evelyn, you’ve always seen every green light or tax rebate as the active hand of God. When Rhonda had so many heart problems as a baby, I saw them as a curse. You saw each day she didn’t die as a miracle.
 
No wonder I miss you so.

I hope you let the letters continue, Ev. This is a shot for me, you know, to do something for this kid of mine. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe it’s a shot for him to do something for me. I don’t really know. I certainly don’t pretend to have any deep words of wisdom. I’m just trying to figure out my thing and he’s trying to do the same. But, you know, if a brother stumbles and all that.

Your call, though.

Dad (Hugh)

I had this talk with Mom.

Dear Dad,

 Mom showed me the letter you wrote to her. That one freaked her out as much as opening your first letter did. It kind of freaked me out, too, because I kind of get it now that Mom is a real person. I mean, she is a person who you miss when you’re not around her. You do, I mean.

 Mom also said I could write you back. And she said she wouldn’t read what I wrote. So here goes:

 A week and a half ago, I had this talk with Mom. The two of us went to Round Table Pizza, which is kind of our place. It’s weird to have a place you go with your mom, but I do. We ordered—plain cheese for me, salad bar for her, but I know she’ll eat some of my pizza. Then she got right down to it.

 “Trevor,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about, well, about me, I suppose. About my life.”

 I think I probably looked surprised, because the skin on my face felt stretched tight.

 Mom continued, as she polished a little grime off her fork. “I’ve been seeing someone, you know. John. The cabinetmaker, as Rhonda calls him.” I nodded. Mom said, “I like him. He’s nice to me. He lives just up the hill, kind of by Woodmont Elementary. He’s kind of dashing, in a cabinetmaker sort of way. I can imagine being his—being his girl or whatever.”

 “He have any kids?”

 “Three, but all grown and mostly out of the house. His youngest is the same age as Keith. I’ve met them. He told me they like me.” She kind of blushed. “His daughter thinks he should ask me to—but none of that really matters, Trev. Because I’m—I’m not going to see him anymore.”

“Why?”

 “Oh.” Mom put the fork down and started polishing the knife. “I told him earlier today over the phone. I hope it wasn’t rude to do it over the phone.” She didn’t say anything for a bit, then said, “I already have a man in my life. Men, I mean. You and Rhett. And Rhonda, too. You’re all still so much in my life. In our home.”

 “Yeah, but, if you want to—“

 “No, it’s just too complicated, Trevor. Too soon. Honestly, I never planned on seeing anyone. Then Keith and Steffan moved out and I could feel—I could feel what it might be like when you all left. It scared me. I like a loud house. I like someone to play rummy with. Someone to cook for. But it’s too early, Trevor. So I’m going to wait a few more years. I’m warning you now, though. It’s coming. And you’re the youngest. My baby. So you’ll have to put up with more of it than the others. You’ll probably be around to see it. My dating years.”

 I told her if she waited, the cabinetmaker would probably go find someone else. She didn’t say anything. She stood up and walked to the salad bar and took a long time choosing her dressing. When she came back, we talked some more. She asked me if I was interested in any girls. I said no. I said I tried that earlier in the year and it was pretty dumb. I said I guessed I was going to wait a few more years, too.

 “And I’ll be around to see it,” she said. Mom does this sort of wink thing when she thinks she’s made a joke, except instead of winking, she opens her eyes even farther and kind of nods at you.

 I asked her if she ever thought of you, of how you might feel if she dated. She said she thought about you all the time, especially when she thought about other men, which makes a weird kind of sense. It worried her, I thought, so I told her not to—worry, I mean. I said I was pretty sure Dad was the kind of guy who would want you to get out and get busy. Woah. That does not sound right. Get busy living, I mean. Yeesh.

 It was a good talk, even though it really wore me out. I felt like how you feel after crying, all kind of wilty. When we came home, we sat and watched a nature show on TV together. Mom loves nature shows. She usually says how amazing every little critter or plant is, but tonight she didn’t say much. Either did I. But it was good to sit there with her, I guess.

 So that’s the talk.

 We’re still working out this letter writing thing. I think she’s still trying to figure it out. So maybe be a bit careful in what you say in the next letter, OK?

 Your son,

 Trevor

I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do.

Dear Dad,

 I’m back to writing to you, at least for now.

 The day before the father/son basketball game, I started feeling kind of sick when I was at school. Queasy sick. I ran out of social studies to the boys’ room, because I thought I was gonna barf. I managed to hold it in, but I skipped basketball practice and went right home with Rhett and Rhonda. I had to run in the house from Rhett’s car and barely made it to the bathroom before I totally blew. It was gross.

 I was really sick all that night. So sick that Mom stayed home from work the next day. I was either barfing or sleeping all day long. It was pretty awful. I fell asleep around 10 a.m. and when I finally woke up, Mom was sitting on the side of my bed, reading one of your letters she’d got out of the mailbox. The first time she’d got to the mail before me since this whole thing started. She kept reading it and then rereading it. She kept sticking it in the envelope and then taking it back out. She mostly looked really confused.

 My head was really fuzzy from being sick and I think I did a crummy job explaining to her what was going on. Mom mostly just sat there staring down at the letter. She said something about talking more later and left. I kind of fell back asleep, but mostly just layed there wondering what Mom must think, wondering if it would mean the end of our letters, wondering how weird it must all look to Mom, me getting letters from her dead husband.

 I asked her if I could write back to you. She said she’d have to think about it.

 I’ve been really sick then. Really. I mean, no faking or anything. I’ve had this fever of about 103 until this morning. I totally missed the father-son game. I haven’t been to school all week. Today is the first day I’ve felt anything even slightly like a human. The whole time, I’ve been having these weird fever-y dreams about you and mom and this guy mom was dating and all the stuff in our letters. Not dreams, really. Just jumbles of images and stuff.

 Mom stayed home with me all the week. I’m not sure if it was to take care of me or just to get the mail. She read the other letters you sent during that time. She let me read them too, but not until today. She hasn’t asked anything about what was in the letters or asked to see any of the other ones you sent. I’ve got a drawer full of them. I suppose I’d show them to her if she asked, but she hasn’t asked yet and I haven’t offered them. She has asked how long this has been going on. When I told her, she kind of sucked in her breath like I hit her in the stomach, but she didn’t say anything. No crying or anything, either.

 I’m gonna do whatever she asks me to do, Dad. If she asks me to stop writing to you, I think I’d even do that. See Mom and I had this big talk, right before I got sick. It was kind of a big deal. I still need to tell you about that, if Mom will let me write you again. For now, she said I should write you this letter and tell you not to worry about me. Let you know I was still alive and all that. So that’s what I’m doing now. She’s gonna read this before I send it.

 I’m not sure what happens next.

 Your son,

 Trevor

I’d rather go down in blood than go down beneath the moss.

Dear Trevor,

 I still haven’t heard from you. It makes me nervous. Your letters were the only rhythm to my rhythm-less existence.

 Even the silent postman seems a bit shaken. You’ve become part of his rhythm, too. When I walked in to his tiny post office a few hours ago, his face had an actual expression on it for the first time that I can remember. It wasn’t quite sorrow. It was more nervousness, I think.

 The smell of blood drew me away from Carl’s numb side and back to this seaside town. I knew what it was from the first subtle scent. It was that bloody boat. Just the smell of it made the woods seem even more dead—more lacking in sensation.

 I stumbled out of the trees into the dim light of this place. I followed the smell down to the pier, just in time to see the boat pulling away from the dock. Sung-Hee came out of her restaurant, wiping her hands on her dingy apron. She looked at me with only the slightest of interest. Then she turned and walked back inside—she had two new customers on whom she could foist her miserable coffee.

 The boat still terrifies me, but it pulls on me, too. I think it is the only choice I have here. Because I can’t stay in this in-between town. And now I know what the woods are. They’re death. They’re hell. So what does that make the boat?

 If it’s heaven, it’s a terrible kind of heaven. If it takes me to another level of hell, at least it’s a hell with some kind of something. I mean it’s not nothing. It may be all blood and violence, but I tell you, Trevor, that scares me less than those woods. I’d rather go down in blood than go down beneath the moss.

 Trevor, write me back. I’m on the brink. I need to hear from you.

 Dad

Something saved me.

Dear Trevor,

 I haven’t heard back from you for a number of days. I’ve been rereading the letters you sent during my absence over and over. My God, Trevor, you’ve been living. So much of it may look like pain to you, but all of it looks like life to me.

 That’s the lesson of the woods, I think. That true death is not doing. It is simply being. The woods, I believe now, are hell. That is where life really stops. The best case scenario in the woods is a kind of nothingness—a stopping of doing. A stopping of living. A burrowing under the moss and a returning to the soil. The worst case? That is Julia and the others with her on the far side of the chasm. With her? That is not the proper term. No one is with her. She is all alone. She is pure, longing loneliness.

 Your life, Trevor, with your idiot of a basketball coach making you miserable every day, is so far from this. That may be all that you write, but here’s what I read: I read that Mr. Schick gave you a great gift by making you feel miserable. You felt something. So many teachers and coaches seem bent on making you feel nothing. I read that you forged a new friendship with this boy Brian, who obsesses over cars. God bless him! He cares about something!

 In the woods, Trevor, there is nothing to care about. That’s why Carl sat down. That’s why he ignored my pulls and pleas. He sat there, uncaring, as his body sank into the damp dirt. The wet didn’t stir him, nor did my bullying. What did I have to tempt him? His miserable cabin? Sung-Hee’s lousy coffee? My companionship?

He sat there while I yelled at him. He sat while I told him stories, while I talked about you, while I reminded him about our boxing matches, while I recited bits of Yeats to him. I told him every tale I could remember, about getting in fights or getting drunk or hurting myself or having a belly laugh. I talked to him about the taste of a tangerine at Christmas and the way the sharp juice stings your mouth with flavor. I talked about watching your brother Rhett crash his bike and imbed gravel into the flesh of his knee. I talked about the feel of your mother’s hair against my mouth, about breathing in her scent.

Carl sat there. For days, I think. Maybe weeks. Long enough for the moss to grow onto him. I’d scrape it away, but he barely noticed. He breathed at me.

I nearly sat down next to Carl. But something saved me. A smell. A scent made it all the way into those smothering woods.

It was the smell of blood. I followed it back.

Dad

Those mounds—they were everywhere.

Dear Trevor,

 I want to hear about your conversation with Mom. If I have to tell you more about the woods to do so, here it is:

 As we stumbled along through the heavy moss, I had to badger Carl at every step, just to get him to continue. I thought about just taking him back to the town, as he was slowing me down, but I didn’t want to be in the woods alone. If I’d taken him back, he’d still be—alive, I suppose, is the closest word. He’d be one degree less dead.

 At one point, I let Carl rest for a couple of minutes. He wanted to sit down, but I told him to lean against a tree. When he complained, I told him about Martin. That shut him up. We sat there in the woods, listening to Carl’s heavy breathing and the drips falling off the trees. “Come on,” I said, tugging at Carl’s arm.

 “My feet are stuck,” he said. I yanked him free. It took a mighty pull.

 We walked on—I have no idea how long. Time barely exists in this land. In the forest, it seems to stop altogether. There was no trail. There was no sun. I tried to keep walking straight, but the ground was so lumpy with moss and moss-covered mounds that I had no idea which way I was going. I’ve always had a lousy sense of direction anyway.

 Those mounds—they were everywhere. They reminded me of moss-covered anthills.

 Carl was about to collapse when I heard the sound of running water. I pulled Carl forward, my hand holding his, and we followed the sound. The ground sloped down until we came to the edge of the chasm. We’d reached the river, but at a different spot than I’d come to before. I had no idea if I was upstream or downstream from where I’d left Martin and Julia. I guessed and we turned left and began walking downstream along the chasm.

 “How far are we going to go?” asked Carl. I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know. The ground continued to slope downward, following the flow of the river. None of it looked familiar to me. Near the bank of the river, the moss was even thicker and the mossy mounds crowded even closer together.

 I was looking along the bank for any sign that looked familiar. I was looking across the chasm for any hint of Julia’s presence. On the far side, I saw what looked like movement. I shouted, “Julia! Is that you?”

 “Help me!” shouted a man’s voice. “I’m alone!”

 “I’m alone!” shouted another voice from across the chasm, a woman this time. “Someone please help me!” I could make out their shapes on the far side of the chasm, but couldn’t see their faces.

 “Have you seen Julia?” I shouted. My question sounded stupid as it left my lips. I knew before they responded that they would have no information.

 “Is someone there?” shouted the man in reply.

 Another voice—a much younger man—shouted in response. “I heard something! Someone please help me! I’m so alone!” I could see the shapes, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, crying out for help, for company. But I could make out no way to get across the chasm. Even if I saw a way, I don’t think I’d ever have tried it.

 Then I heard Julia. “Help me!” she cried. “If you’re there, please help me!” I could see her in the dim light, looking blindly around.

 Carl’s head jerked briefly at her cry. He looked over at her halfheartedly. “I suppose we should do something.” He sat down. “I’m so tired.”

 I yanked Carl to his feet, Trevor. I pulled him away from the bank. I gave up on Julia. My intention—the most I knew I could do right then—was to try to save Carl and myself.

 I failed Carl. I saved myself. Or, I should say, my self was saved.

That’s enough for now.

 Dad

We can’t sit down. If you stop in here, you’re through.

Dear Trevor,

Yeah, Donnie is a smart dork. He’s right. You need to do stuff.

That’s what the woods are all about—doing or not doing. That’s what this whole thing is all about. That’s the choice, I think. To do or not do. Being is not enough. Doing is what is required.

Carl and I walked into the woods, hoping to follow my old footprints back to Martin and Julia. I’d given up hope on Martin. I assumed he’d turned to peat by now. A rotten log for growing moss. I still held to the chance that Julia could be found and somehow rescued. I hoped that Carl’s presence would give me the courage to find a way to bring her back.

My trail was long gone, grown over by moss. I suppose a better tracker would have been able to find it, but I think a real woodsman would never end up where I am. He would know where he was going and have arrived there long ago. That’s why I’m here. I don’t yet know where I’m going, but I’m starting to figure it out.

With no trail, my only hope was to guess well, but all those moss-covered trees looked the same. Carl kept asking me the same basic questions over and over: “Are you sure this is the right way?” “Is this the same way you came last time?” “Does this way look familiar to you?” But I didn’t tell him to shut up, because the sound of his annoying voice was still better than nothing. I just kind of mumbled back to him while I wandered along.

And I wondered, sometimes aloud, if the woods were designed that way on purpose. “I bet there isn’t meant to be a destination,” I said to myself.

“Wh—what?” Carl huffed as he talked. The moss was heavy and hard to walk in.

“I think that’s the point, Carl. There’s no end here. There’s just journey. It’s like that old cliché—the journey is the destination.”

“I always—liked that saying.”

“Yes, but if there is no destination, than the journey becomes meaningless. The journey becomes wandering. It becomes literally pointless. That’s what the woods are, I’ll bet.”

“I’m tired,” Carl said. “Can we—sit down for a bit?”

“No!” I replied. “We can’t sit down. If you stop in here, you’re through.”

“Just—for a minute,” said Carl.

“No!” I shouted, but my voice seemed muffled. “Shut up and keep going, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

My bullying only worked for so long, Trevor. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Right how I need to get my head out of the woods for a while. Even thinking about that place is deadly.

Dad

Donnie’s a dork and all. But kind of a smart dork.

Dear Dad,

Goodness. Your letters lately really freak me out. I hope you’re done with the woods.

I don’t know if you’ve read all my letters yet, but I want to tell you about this day I spent fishing with Donnie. I’ve always thought Donnie was kind of a goof. The type of guy who never plans ahead and just kind of wanders around doing what he wants to right then. I’m not sure I still feel that way.

Donnie spent the night last Friday. His mom dropped him off after the basketball game I didn’t play in. We ate frozen pizzas—we cooked them first!—and then watched TV. We didn’t stay up very late this time, so the shows didn’t get very scary.

Donnie woke me up really early in the morning and we scarfed down some Cheerios—Donnie puts a ton of sugar on his Cheerios, by the way—and then went down to the beach. We rowed the aluminum boat out to the buoy line and tied off and then started fishing. Actually, Donnie started fishing. I dropped a line over the side and went back to sleep. I was all bundled up in ski clothes and it was still pretty much dark out. It felt kind of nice to nod off in a rocking boat.

I woke up about an hour later when the sun was really shining. Donnie hadn’t caught anything yet, but he said he’d had about a million bites. I said, “Yeah, but you haven’t caught anything.” He said, “Yeah, but at least I’m trying. Just like at school.” I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?

“I don’t know,” Donnie said. “You just kind of drift along.”

“That’s because it’s so stupid.”

“Yeah, maybe, but you’re there. And you can’t change that. So…”

“So what?”

“So, like, I’ve had three girlfriends this year—“

“And that seems smart to you?”

“I’m not talking about smart. I’m talking about—I don’t know. I’m talking about, you know, about doing stuff instead of not doing stuff. I’m doing stuff.”

“Yeah. Stupid stuff like having three girlfriends who are all stupid.”

“That’s not cool. And anyway, I’d rather have three stupid girlfriends than no girldfriends.”

“I had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah. Misty Lee. And you’re saying she wasn’t stupid?”

“No, she was definitely stupid.” We both laughed at that one. Which was kind of a relief, because we were both getting pissed at each other.

Anyway, Donnie’s a dork and all. But I think he said some kind of smart stuff, in his own dorky way.

Right about then I got a bite on my line. I pulled in this nasty looking flounder. I was about to throw it back when Donnie told me to keep it. “It’s better than nothing,” he said.

Your son,

Trevor

It was a horror, albeit a slow, conversational one.

Dear Trevor,

O Carl, I miss you, too. Yours is a face that’s smoked 10,000 cigarettes. You told the same stories of closing deals on suburban split-levels until I wanted to punch you in the mouth. You were unable to make even the simplest decision. And you were the best friend I had since I died.

Carl is still in there, Trevor. Right where I left him. I stayed by him for what must have been many days, trying to get him to come back with me. He simply couldn’t decide what to do. So he did nothing. And now, like Martin, he’s turning back into nothing. Or into compost. His elements are coming unlimbed and unchained.

I know what happened to Martin now, because Carl showed me. It was a horror, albeit a slow, conversational one. The kind of horror that might happen over an afternoon of television and sandwiches. It was just as final and just as eternal.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow, Trevor. I’ll tell you everything.

Dad

I have a lot to tell you.

Dear Dad,

Wow. It’s good to hear your voice. Or read your words. You’re actually back. Which means you’re actually there.

I have all your old letters, but there was this part of me that thought maybe I’d imagined our whole penpal thing. But there you are. And here’s another letter from you. And this is one from me. So it must all be real.

I’m really sorry about Carl. I really liked him. Is he gone for good? That sounded cold. I don’t mean it to. I don’t need to ask you any questions about Carl. Just know that I am sorry.

But I do want to know what happened. To you. In the woods. And please don’t ever go back there.

I have a lot to tell you. Donnie Joad and I went fishing and had a big talk. Then Mom and I went out for dinner and had another big talk. It’s been an exhausting weekend. But I guess I think maybe you should do some of the talking now. All I really want to say today is that I’m so happy or relieved or whatever to hear from you.

I think that’s enough for now. You’ve got plenty to read as it is.

Your son,

Trevor

I’m back. Carl is not.

Dear Trevor,

I’m back. Carl is not.

Your letters nearly filled my little box at the post office. How I can have been gone so long is a mystery of this place. In the woods, time must stop, because activity nearly does.

I barely made it out of that horror of a place. I failed in getting anyone to return. I saw Julia. I saw what little was left of Martin. I saw others as well. And Carl, my dear Carl. He’s in there still. He likely always will be.

Your letters, Trevor, were a shock to me. I ‘ve wondered–for days, apparently–if I had imagined them all. For a while, I convinced myself that the woods were everything. But somehow, I made it out. And my little cabin is still here and Sung-Hee is still here and Gordon. And your letters.

I’m back. I’ll write you more tomorrow, after I’ve read all your news.

Dad

I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing himself to me.

Dear Dad,

I told Mom I wasn’t going to play in the father-son basketball game. She frowned at me.

“Why do you want me to play in it?” I said.

“Because,” she said, “A boy needs to have a father figure in his life.”

“And you think—you think if I play in this game—“

“I don’t know, Trevor. I want you to be around some good adult males. They can give you things that I can’t.”

“I don’t even know any of these people. Except Mr. Schick. And he’s a complete—“

“—I think you need to give Mr. Schick a chance.”

“What?!”

“OK, maybe you’ve given him enough chances already. But there are bound to be other fathers there.”

“And? You think I should go up to them in the gym and ask them to take me out for ice cream?”

“Don’t get smart. I just want to make sure you’re getting exposed to male role models.”

All I could think about right then was taking a shower in the men’s locker room at the Y. “Like Mr. Schick? I don’t want Mr. Schick exposing any more of himself to me. Besides, I’ve got you and I’ve got older brothers and I’ve got Dad.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got Dad?”

“I’ve—I mean—he’s.” I took a breath. “I’m OK, Mom. I’m fine. Just don’t make me play in that game.”

She looked at me all heartbroken-like, with her eyes full to the brim and her hands grabbing at her sleeves.

“Let me think about it, OK?”

“OK.” That usually meant she would agree with me. I hope that’s what it meant this time.

I also hope you write me back tomorrow, Dad. I’m getting used to your being gone again. Is this permanent? Are you ever going to write?

Your son,

Trevor

I’ve proved that I don’t need you.

Dear Dad,

Mom wants me to play in the father/son basketball game!

Can you talk to her, please? I’m pretty sure if you walked in to her room, covered in dirt, and told her to back off a wee bit, she would.

But I know that’s not gonna happen. In fact, if you never even write to me again, I’ll survive. I’ve survived for 13 years. I’ve got Mom. I’ve got brothers and a sister. I’ve got friends. I’ve even got a dog now. I’ve proved that I don’t need you.

I don’t need to go to every stupid thing at school. I definitely don’t need to go to this dumb father/son game. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.

You know what I really want? I want to be normal. If everyone else’s dad suddenly dropped dead, I’d probably be happier, but I just want to get through this stupid year. I mean, I know I’ll get through it. 16 weeks to go and summer will be here.

You know who else won’t have a dad in the father/son game? Brian Haase. His dad is alive, but had some sort of nervous breakdown or something. He sits at home. He’s seems like a nice guy, but he’s really quiet. That’s gotta be hard, too. For Brian, I mean.

Once again, Brian and I are in the same boat.

It’s kind of a crummy boat.

Your son,

Trevor

The two words I hate most in the English language.

Dear Dad,

I hate that you’re not writing back.
I hate that you died.
I hate not having a dad.
I hate Mr. Schick.

Mom says I shouldn’t use the word “hate.” Instead, I should say, “dislike.” OK. I dislike Mr. Schick. I dislike him intensely. In other words, I hate him.

Yesterday at practice, Mr. Schick announced to the team that we’ll be having a father/son basketball game. He said, “As soon as you get home, go right up to your dad and really encourage him to come and play. What I’d like to see is every boy’s dad out there on the court!”

Then he turned to me and said, “Oh, and Trevor, you’re still welcome to come, even though you don’t have—even though your dad has uhhh, passed away.” Everybody looked at me to see how I would respond. My response was in my head, where I thought: Mr. Schick is a bastard. I wish he would pass away.

The two words I hate most in the English language are “passed away.” Just say “died.” My dad died. He’s dead. You didn’t pass away.

There is no damn way I’m going to a father/son basketball game. Heck, Mr. Schick probably wouldn’t play me anyway.

Your son,

Trevor

I started rooting for the dogs to win.

Dear Dad,

You’ve been gone too long and I’m really starting to get nervous. Part of my brain figures you’re never coming back. The other part reassures me that you will, any minute.

We had another away game on Friday. I didn’t go again, which sucks, but I’m starting to realize the whole team is pretty crappy and Mr. Schick is a dork, so I don’t really care that much. At least I knew ahead of time, so I went home with Rhett right after school, instead of having to wait around for a ride.

Donnie Joad’s mom dropped him off at our house after the game and we hung out. Donnie really likes to stay up late. Whenever he is at any kind of a sleepover, he figures the point of the whole thing is to see how late you can stay up.

Personally, I can’t stay up late to save my life, no matter how hard I try. If we’re just sitting around watching TV, I start nodding off at about ten and go in and out of sleep for a couple of hours.

At ten, Mom was in bed, so we started watching some stupid movie about hot looking teenagers who go to an island where they start getting attacked by wild dogs. It’s pretty much the stupidest movie ever made. The humans are all dumb. A girl gets bitten by a rabid dog, but decides she doesn’t need to go to a hospital. Instead, she should make out with some guy in the dark while dogs are trying to kill them. The dogs are way smarter. They know how to untie knots with their teeth. The dogs untie all the boats so the teens can’t get off the island.

I started rooting for the dogs to win, then I started falling asleep. Every time I would jerk awake, some dog would be ripping some dumb, sexy teen’s throat to pieces. It really started freaking me out. And I was sleeping on a chair, which was really uncomfortable. Donnie stayed awake the whole time and thought I did, too, because he talked to me even when my eyes were shut. That’s because he never took his eyes off the screen to notice anything else.

Finally, I woke up and the TV was showing an infomercial about a cool-looking vacuum cleaner. Donnie was sleeping on the floor, right in front of the blaring TV. I turned down the volume, switched to the couch, watched the vacuum cleaner thing for a couple minutes, then went to sleep for good.

Mom never mentioned her date. She made a really big dinner Sunday and Steffan and Keith came home and ate with us. I figure the delicious food was to make up for her going out with some guy we don’t know. But the food was really good. Roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and rolls and pink Jell-o salad and nasty green beans. Yummm.

I feel like I’m just kind of rambling, mostly because I’m just talking to myself. When are you going to write back?

Your son,

Trevor

Mom went out on a date last night.

Dear Dad,

Mom went out on a date last night. She told us. Sort of.

After basketball practice, she was making dinner. Hamburgers and french fries, which I like. But she only made enough for Rhonda, Rhett and me. She didn’t eat. She said she was having dinner with a friend.

“Who?” Rhonda asked.

“You don’t know him,” said Mom.

“Him?” Rhonda said. Even Rhett stopped eating at that point and looked up. OK, maybe he didn’t completely stop, but he slowed down.

“It’s no big deal,” Mom said. I think she actually blushed. “It’s just dinner. Just a friendly dinner.”

“Who is this guy?” asked Rhonda.

“His name is John Simon. He builds kitchen cabinets. He’s a friend of–”

“Kitchen cabinets? You’re going out on a date with a guy who builds kitchen cabinets?”

“It’s not a date. It’s just dinner. He’s just a friend.”

“Who we haven’t met.”

“Sounds like a date to me, Mom,” said Rhett.

“Eat your dinner. I have to get ready.”

“You have to get ready!” shouted Rhonda. “If you have to get ready, then it is definitely a date!”

“Eat your dinner!” shouted Mom.

“Do we get to meet him?” I asked.

“NO!”

“Geez, I just asked a question.”

“It’s not a date!”

I’m pretty sure Mom was crying when she stomped out of the room. I’m not sure if I felt sorry for her or not, because it was so weird. Rhonda seemed really pissed about the whole kitchen cabinet thing. Rhett just walked to the front door and left. He didn’t seem mad, though. He just goes out a lot.

Mom left, too, a few minutes later. Rhonda and me stayed home lone and watched TV. I wanted to watch the Olympics, but Rhonda watched some stupid show about college girls decorating their dorm rooms. She was really on edge, so I didn’t try to change the channel. I’m pretty sure she would have punched me if I did.

I went to bed before Mom came home. I didn’t ask her about it in the morning. Should I have?

And are you ever going to write me back?

Your son,

Trevor

When she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise.

Dear Dad,

I’m starting to get nervous that you haven’t come back yet. I thought this trip into the woods would be shorter, since you should kind of know where you’re going this time.

If I don’t have you writing me letters, I’m glad I have this old black dog. She’s not really old, but she’s already gray around her mouth. And she lays her head on her front paws and stares right into my eyes. So when she doesn’t look stupid, she looks kind of wise. Or understanding. At least she pays attention. When I talk to her, she hangs on every single word. I know this is mostly her listening for words like “walk” or “snack,” but I still like it. I can talk to her abour Mr. Schick (the fathead), you (the stiff) and whether or not Mom is dating (the mystery).

Mom was right about this dog. Everyone needs a companion. I guess she needs one, too.

I asked Rhett if he thought Mom wanted to date. He kind of blew me off, because he was walking out the door to some mysterious thing. He was eating leftover spaghetti out of a tupperware container as he walked. He said, “Mom? Date?” Then he sucked up more spaghetti as he opened the front door with his hip and walked out. Halfway out the door, he stopped and said, “Huh.”

Boy, it’s great to have such a wise older brother.

Your son,

Trevor

Rhonda thinks Mom has a boyfriend.

Dear Dad,

You’re not writing back, so I guess you’re tromping through the woods with Carl. I say “tromping” on purpose, because it sounds less scary. I could say, “I guess you’re wandering lost through the shadowy forest of death,” because that’s how it really looks in my mind.

I’m sticking with “tromping.”

Mom has something to say to us, but she can’t quite get up the nerve to do it. At dinner last night—just Mom, Rhonda and me, because Rhett was out with some buddies—she said, “Rhonda, Trevor?” Rhonda and I stopped shoveling spaghetti into our faces and waited. Mom stared at us for a few seconds and said, “Hurry up and eat your dinner.”

“Hurry for what?” Rhonda said. “We going somewhere?”
“Do we always have to be going somewhere?”
“What?”
“Quit talking and eat your dinner.” Mom scraped her uneaten spaghetti into Blackie’s bowl—Blackie eats all leftovers—and started doing dishes. Mom really clanged those pots around in the sink.

Rhonda thinks Mom has a boyfriend and hasn’t told us yet. I think it’s better not to think about it at all.

You son,

Trevor

She claps her hands once and then pumps one fist into the air.

Dear Dad,

Are you gone back into the woods?

Another weekend. Another basketball game I didn’t play in. Not even close to getting in this time, as the score was back and forth the whole game. We lost by three.

Mr. Schick must think I should be happy just to be on the team. Like it’s some great honor or something. He’s kind of right, I guess. I am glad I didn’t get cut. But it sucks to just sit there on the bench. And close games are the ones I want to be part of. I want to be in the heat of the battle, you know? I want some of the blood that’s shed to be mine.

You were talking about purpose. I’m not sure what the purpose of the team is. Is it to bring glory to Mr. Schick? No one gives a crap if his team wins or loses and no one like him, because he’s a total dorkus. Is it to bring glory to the school? Because hardly anyone goes to the games. Parents go. And a few kids who are all into school spirit or some weird thing like that. There’s this one girl—Greta Glaspar—she’s at every game. She sits all alone right behind our bench and cheers like crazy. “Come on, Warriors! Whoo-hoo!” And she does this weird clap-pump thing. She claps her hands once and then pumps one fist into the air. Clap-pump!

Maybe she’s practicing to be a cheerleader. I suppose ugly girls can dream, too. Boy, that sounded harsh.

I’m pretty sure the idea behind junior high school sports is that it’s for the kids, right? I’m a kid, aren’t I? Doesn’t that mean I should get to play, too? What they really mean is that sports are for the athletic kids—not all the kids. The jocks play more and get better. The clods play less and get worse. We all learn our places, I suppose.

Your son the clod,

Trevor

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dear Trevor,

I’m scribbling this note to you and dropping it off at the post office as Carl and I get ready to head back into the woods.

Carl is tagging after me like a faithful mutt, waiting for me to give him a command. It’s strange. Once I gave him one order of leaving with me today, our relationship has changed. He looks to me for direction. I think it feels natural to him, to not have to think for himself. I understand that. This is not a place that encourages thinking, at least not without great effort.

I expect that I will come back, Trevor. I am nearly certain the woods are not for me, but I need to realize what they are for. They must have a purpose. There must be purpose, mustn’t there? I mean, even this purposeless place must play a role in the long stumble of our souls.

I hope we can somehow find Julia again and bring her back, but I only have the littlest bit of faith that will happen. Between you and me, it’s not my main purpose forgoing back in. If you had seen Julia and heard the chords her voice struck, you would understand what I mean. I don’t think there is any coming back for her.

Gordon came to see us off, holding his empty pipe in his hand for comfort, tapping the bowl and probably wishing hard for tobacco. “Post tenebras spero lucem,” he said to us. “After darkness, I hope for light.” I hope for light, too. I hope for something. Something other than what I have now.

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dad

You bend everything into a dirty joke.

Dear Dad,

I wish you weren’t going back into the woods. But I’m glad Carl is going with you.

I kind of like Carl. He reminds me of the kind of friends I imagine you having, if you were still alive. A guy your age who would come over and help you build a fence and maybe give me sips of his beer when Mom wasn’t looking. I’d call him Uncle Carl even if he wasn’t really my uncle and he’d call me Trevorino or T-Dog or Sport-O and we’d punch each other on the arms.

Mom’s church friends don’t drink much beer. None of them have ever called me T-Dog.

If you had any of those friends when you were still alive, none of them are coming around anymore. None of them come around to take me out to breakfast or ask me about girls. That’s probably OK. It would just be weird anyway and I would feel strange going out to breakfast with some old guy.

I do kind of wish there was someone I could talk with about girls. They still pretty much scare me for the most part. Most of them, anyway. There are a few rare girls who don’t bring fear with them when they walk into a room. But most do.

I went roller skating a few weeks ago with some guys from school. It was for Gabe McCallister’s birthday party. His mom took us. I wonder if his mom knows that Gabe McCallister has a condom in his wallet. I bet she doesn’t, because she took us all to McDonald’s and bought us all Happy Meals, like we were kindergarteners or something. It was kind of cool, though, because we had a bunch of us guys making jokes about the little toys we got with the food. They were these chubby little space aliens with long, bendable arms. Gabe McCallister bent the arms of his aliens into dirty shapes, if you can believe it.

That’s what you do in junior high school. You bend everything into a dirty joke. Everything.

I was actually one of the best skaters. I’m pretty good at stuff that no one cares about. Gabe McCallister sucks at skating. He can barely let go of the wall. But somehow, he makes being a bad skater cool. One time, he wobbled his way across the rink right into a crowd of girls. He knocked one of them down and they laid there, tangled on the floor, laughing away. A few minutes later, that girl was guiding Gabe around the floor, holding hands with him.

How does he do that? If a girl asked me to hold hands with her, I’d probably barf all over the rink.

If you’ve left already, I hope you come back soon.

Your son,

Trevor

Carl, you’re coming with me. We leave tomorrow.

Dear Trevor,

I told Carl today about Julia. It wasn’t until I received your letter that I realized I hadn’t told anyone. And the thought that perhaps I could get someone to go with me into the woods is a great relief. Assuming anyone in this town will go with me.

Carl was shocked, of course. How could he not be? I’m not certain he believes my story. He kept looking up toward the woods while I was talking. When I got to the part about Julia, he asked the same two questions that have been running through my head:

“How did she get across the chasm? How could you just leave her there?”

I told him I was going back. He said, “She could be dead by now.” I smiled grimly and asked him to come with me. He said nothing for a while. I asked him for an answer. He looked up at me without replying.

Right then I came to a realization. In this little town, the ruling authority is apathy. Nothing is what we do every day. We are deep into that ditch. If Carl had been capable of making a decision, he wouldn’t still be here. I realized right then he was no longer capable, so I took a different approach. I said, “Carl, you’re coming with me. We leave tomorrow.” He looked up at me and nodded. So I guess that settles it.

Now Trevor, about this basketball team you’re on. I want to hear more about it. I reread your recent letters and agree with you on one thing: Mr. Schick sounds like a real jerk. But if I was there with you, I still think I’d let you deal with him on your own. He is your dragon to slay, not mine. Should you stick it out or quit? Your call, my son.

When I was your age, I was no great athlete. I ran track in high school and did OK in that, even if I never loved it. I played a little soccer as well. I remember struggling through sports all during my high school years, wishing I was the boy that quickened schoolgirl hearts when a ball sprung from my instep and rocketed 18 yards past a helpless goalkeeper. But my body would never cooperate with my fantasies.

During my second year in college, I joined an intramural soccer team—men and women and just for fun. I mostly did it to meet girls. But playing then, when I was 19 and out of high school—something happened. My body began to cooperate. The ball went where I wanted it to. I could dribble down the field with my head up. I could see the channels for passing. I knew when to make a break. People noticed. No coaches came calling. But I was good. I was finally good.

And it no longer mattered.

I still remember the day I realized it, when I bobbed my head left, kicked right through two defenders and shot the ball into the back of the goal, feeling relaxed and in control the whole time. I laughed out loud because I realized the cosmic joke of the whole thing. No girls sighed. High school was over already. So much of life is about timing.

Here’s another joke for you. You and I have finally connected. Unfortunately, you’re still alive and I’m dead.

Dad