I’m not gonna back off on this one.

Dear Dad,

I’m not gonna leave you alone, you stubborn old bastard.

Remember way back in December, when we made that bargain? When you took on my fear of Mudgett? You said that in exchange, you’d file away an IOU. How about if you use it now? How about if I take on your fear of telling this story? How about if you give me your fear and then write freely?

Either way, I’m not gonna back off on this one, so you might as well spill. You’ve been talking about talking about this all year. It’s time you got down to it. Get it over with. Do.

If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Mom.

Your son,

Trevor

You are getting on my nerves.

Dear Trevor,

You are getting on my nerves. I wish you would shut up about this topic. I wish you would leave me the hell alone.

I can’t do it. I can’t open my mouth about this one.

Dad

“Do you know how Meredith actually died?”

Dear Dad,

I asked Rhonda about Meredith. I figure since you aren’t telling me, I might as well dig a little on my own. Like I said, I’m just gonna keep writing about it until you spill your guts.

That’s one advantage of having a dead dad. I can sass you all I want and you have to put up with it. I’m mostly joking, Dad. I’m not trying to be a pain in the butt. I’m trying to get you to unload, you know?

Anyway, Rhonda is my only real option. No way I’m asking Mom, because I know you’d really freak out if I brought her into it. Mom would probably tell me the real story if I asked. She keeps a lot of stuff to herself, but if you ask her, she’ll tell.

I just asked Rhonda straight out. I walked into her bedroom—upstairs. She was listening to some weird county-punk music and lying on her bed looking at the ceiling. I turned off her music and said, “Hey.”

“Hey.” She didn’t look up. Must have been something really amazing on that ceiling.

“Do you know how Meredith actually died?”

“Our Meredith?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? And why didn’t you knock?”

“I just wanna know. No one’s ever told me and I figure she was practically my sister.”

“’Course she was your sister, you little dork. She’s just dead. Why’ve you been so weird lately?”

“I don’t know. Puberty. So how’d she die?”

Rhonda finally turned onto her side. “Crib death, I guess.”

“Which means…”

“Which means that some babies just die in their cribs. Like they don’t get enough oxygen. Their faces get too smooshed into the sheets and they just keep breathing in the same air over and over until they suffocate. Happens all the time.”

“How do you prevent it?”

“What, are you planning to have a baby or something? Geez. I guess you make the baby sleep on its back or something.”

“How come they didn’t do that with Meredith?”

“You ever tried to keep a baby on it’s back? Baby are intrinsically squirmy. Besides, they didn’t know better back then. Now go away. And close the door. And knock next time.”

I left. I have no idea if Rhonda is telling me the truth or not. Anything you want to share here, Dad?

Your son,

Trevor

I don’t feel like I have a right to tell this story.

Dear Trevor,

I don’t feel like I have a right to tell this story. Just the act of telling it will be one more thing that needs to be forgiven.

I don’t know how to start.

I am the villain in this tale. No. Villain is more appealing than my role. My crime was less active but no less unforgiveable.

Can we avoid it for another few days? Can I talk about your math test? About how proud I am of you? About how I hope your Mom lets you take taekwondo lessons? Believe me, I’m in no position to ask her for anything, although I’ve asked her for so much throughout my life.

That’s all I’ve got for you today, Trevor.

Dad

She can’t hear a siren without thinking about that day.

Dear Dad,

I guess there was something pushing on the back of my brain about Meredith. You never mentioned her even once, even though she’s the only other person in our regular family that’s died, other than you. I mean, I know she was only six months old and died before I was even born, but Mom still talks about her pretty often. And we still go and put flowers on her grave every Memorial Day. Her grave’s in the baby section. You probably know that. You probably bought the tombstone.

Mom’s told me a little bit about how Meredith died. Well, she’s never told me the whole story, if there is one. Other than Meredith was taking a nap and didn’t wake up. Mom called 911 and the ambulance came racing over. That’s why I’ve heard the story. When we hear sirens, Mom talks about Meredith. She says she can’t hear a siren without thinking about that day. Good thing we don’t live by a fire station. Yikes.

I figure it was about 19 years ago, so it seems like you’d all be pretty much over it by now. I’m clearly wrong about that.

I also figure it’s hard for you to read this right now. That’s OK. I’m gonna keep talking about it until you do, because I guess I think it will be good for you to talk about it. I feel like you’d do the same thing for me. Or to me.

Mom settled down about the canoe trip, although sometimes she looks at me and shivers. I thought she’d settled down enough for me to bring up the chance of taekwondo lessons again, now that stupid basketball with stupid Mr. Schick is over. But I was wrong. When I asked, she yelled, “Trevor! Not now!” Which I took to mean, I’m still really pissed at you so don’t even think of asking for anything.

Hey, guess what? I passed that algebra test in Mrs. Fletcher’s class! I’m going straight into algebra next year, so I guess somehow I’m no longer a math idiot. Don’t ask me how. I still feel confused most days. Maybe everyone does.

Your son,

Trevor

Not feeling much like writing today.

Dear Trevor,

Not feeling much like writing today. Give me a day or so to figure out how to do this. I may need to learn a new language, because the one I’ve got doesn’t seem to have the right words.

Dad

I survived the canoe trip OK, but I barely survived Mom.

Dear Dad,

We need to talk.

I survived the canoe trip OK, but I barely survived Mom.

We put the canoe and the rest of our gear into the back of Donnie’s truck and headed up to the park. We unloaded by 10 and figured we be to the pick-up spot by about 3. Donnie’s mom made sure we had Donnie’s cell phone in a Ziploc bag. Donnie even opened the bag to make sure it was charged and on. Last but not least, she made us promise to keep our lifejackets on.

We got into the water and started floating down the river. It was awesome. Even at 10 it was already pretty warm. I took my life jacket off and sat on it. I was just wearing sandals, cargo shorts and a t-shirt.

The river was high, but most of the time it was pretty mellow. We planned on taking it easy, anyway. We talked with Donnie’s dad the night before and promised that if we came to anything too rough, we’d carry the canoe around it. Donnie’s dad called this a “portage,” which sounded cool in a Lewis-and-Clark sort of way.

So that’s how it went for a long time. We shot a few small rapids and portaged a few big ones. After a couple hours, we stopped at a sandbar and ate lunch—sandwiches, water, brownies and Fritos. No Bugles. Then we skipped rocks for a while, until Donnie said we should get going, because he knew that if we were very late his mom would freak.

It was really warm by then, until the river went into this kind of canyon where the sun couldn’t get. The canyon kept getting narrower. Cliff walls went about 30 feet up on both sides. Lots of shadows. No banks.

Up ahead, I could hear rapids, but I couldn’t tell how big they were or how far away. We paddled stupidly toward them.

We came around a bend and the rapids sucked us right in. They weren’t too bad at first, but we could see curling whitewater ahead. Donnie let a few curse words fly and we both started paddling for the smoothest section of water. Then the river grabbed us and started slamming us around. Right in front of us, a huge boulder seemed to pop out of nowhere. The river spun us sideways right toward it. We slammed into the boulder so hard that Donnie and I instantly flipped out of the boat. The river sucked Donnie downstream. I grabbed the bottom of the upside down canoe and held on through the rapids, banging my shins on rocks as I went.

I caught up to Donnie a few minutes later. We dogpaddled the canoe over to the bank and lied on the muddy shore, catching our breath. After a few minutes we turned the canoe over and saw the hole in the side. It was about as big as a softball and below the waterline.

We’d lost most of our stuff, including Donnie’s cell phone and cooler, my life jacket and both paddles. We were soaked and cold and about ten miles from our pick-up point at the Highway 18 Bridge.

We tried stuffing a wadded-up t-shirt into the hole in the canoe, but the water still pored through. We ended up stashing the canoe in some bushes on the river’s edge, then started walking. Most of the way, it wasn’t too bad, because there were train tracks that followed the river. But it felt like it took forever.

When we reached the pick-up spot no one was there. There was no place to call and we had no phone, so we started walking toward Donnie’s house, another couple miles away. We finally got there about dark—eight o’clock—and there were a bunch of cop cars out front. Mom’s car was there, too.

I guess they all thought we were dead. At six, Donnie’s mom called the cops and the cops sent out Search and Rescue. The Search and Rescue guys found the canoe and my life jacket and were scouring the bank for our bodies.

The police lectured us, lectured Mom and Donnie’s parents, then left. Then me and Mom left and she started lecturing me. She was really upset. She started crying while she was driving. I asked her why, since I was OK. She said she thought she’d lost another of her children.

I knew what she was talking about. Meredith. The sister I never met who died as a baby. Mom

Dad, does this have something to do with your shame?

Your son,

Trevor

I’m on the hunt for the stranger in town.

Dear Trevor,

By the time you get this letter, you’ll be back from your canoe trip. Can I wish you luck—or pray for your safety—in the past? I think so. I pray that you were safe on Saturday and that you made it back to your mother alive and well. Bruised, maybe, but not broken.

Not all my children have fared so well, Trevor. Ahh.

I’m on the hunt for the stranger in town. Sung-Hee and Dr. Jones both claim to have seen him, but both describe him completely differently, so I doubt their stories. Dr. Jones says the man appeared to be “short, bald and studious.” Not sure what studious looks like. Jones said he wore a rumpled, dark blue suit and appeared lost in thought. He said he saw him down among the sound end of the cabins, but no one who lives down in that part of town seems to have spotted the man.

Sung-Hee said the man had a full head of hair and a prominent beard. “You should see the beard on this guy,” she said. “He put some years into that thing. He’d never be able to work in a restaurant with hair like that.”

Sung-Hee claims to have seen him on the dock. I looked, but saw no sign. At least it’s nice to have something to look for, Trevor. It keeps my mind off the letter I know I need to write you.

Dad

We’re gonna drop our canoe in there.

Dear Dad,

I don’t know what I might do about the cookie contest, but Brian Haase pulled one of the flyers off the wall and showed it to me.

“Do you know what this is?” he said. “This–this is opportunity.”

“Opportunity to do what?”

“To do–something! We need to talk.”

We haven’t talked yet, but I kind of liked Brian’s spirit. His eyes were all wide and little spots on his cheeks got all red. It reminded me how he used to look when we got in fights in 5th grade. Besides, doing something seems a lot like what you’re always talking about. Doing versus not doing.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Tonight I’m going to spend the night at Donnie’s house and then in the morning his mom is going to bring us up to Flaming Geyser State Park. We’re gonna drop our canoe in there and paddle down the Green River to the Highway 18 Bridge. Donnie’s bringing a cellphone in a Ziploc bag so that we can call her when we get there so she can pick us up. It should be pretty fun. It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow and Donnie says his mom bought us a whole bunch of junk food to eat along the way. I hope she bought Bugles. Donnie always has Bugles in his lunch. They’re kind of delicious.

Remember Mrs. Fletcher, my math teacher? She’s still as evil as ever and today, to prove it, she gave us a test on algebra, which we’ve never studied. When I reminded her of this, she said, “I’m fully aware of what we have and have not studied, Mr. Griffiths. However, those of you who do well enough on this test will be admitted directly into algebra next year, instead of waiting until 9th grade. The rest of you will take the ordinary track to pre-algebra.”

It seems pretty stupid. How are we supposed to do well on a test when we’ve never studied the stuff? Anyway, I took the test. I knew more of it than I thought. We’ll find out next week, I guess.

Wish me luck on my canoe trip,

Your son,

Trevor

There’s another newcomer in town

Dear Trevor,

I’m not sure what advice to give you about the cookie contest. All year, I’ve been telling you to do. Kiss the girl. Fight the boy. Go back to school. Play in the game. Now what? Hold back?

I wish your motivation wasn’t revenge, because I’m pretty sure that one will leave a bad taste–like one too many donuts.

Then again, one too many donuts sounds pretty good right now.

What are you thinking? Making horrible tasting cookies? Poisoning Mr. Schick? Don’t do anything stupid.

I don’t know what you can do to help me with my burden of shame. Nothing, I expect. But I could be wrong. I’ll keep thinking about it as much as I can stand to.

Sung-Hee told me a strange bit of gossip. Supposedly, there’s another newcomer in town, but no one has met him. The well-dressed black man–whose name I still don’t know–confirmed it. I asked Gordon if he wanted to go door-to-door with me to search out this mystery man, but he said he was contemplating a particularly interesting fog bank and didn’t want to move from his porch. I went by myself, up and down the entire line of cabins and shacks, but found no one I hadn’t seen before.

I’d love a little new company. A little new something. Maybe tomorrow.

Dad

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

I’ll wait to hear from you. I’m good at waiting.

Dear Trevor,

Have fun at the water park..

I’m back to my old routine for now, except that Carl is no longer part of it. Martin is gone. Julia was only here for a short time, but I miss her, too.

It’s down to Gordon, Sung-Hee, me, and a few newcomers I don’t have the energy to get to know. I see them wandering between the cabins or loitering at The Laughing Gull. One—a youngish black man with the nicest suit I’ve seen up here—came to ask me about The Woods. Sung-Hee had told him I’d been there.

“It’s nothing,” was my reply to his questions.

“But can’t you tell me about it?”

“I just did.”

Gordon has become my most common companion. I’m grateful for him. When I told him about Carl, he listened silently. When I stopped talking, he was quiet for a long time. We both were. He finally whispered, “pulvis et umbra sumus.” I didn’t ask him what it meant. I think I know.

I’ll wait to hear from you. I’m good at waiting.

Dad

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

Hi. I miss you.

Dear Ev -

Hi. I miss you.

Hugh

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

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

You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

Dear Dad,

Doing or not doing. Are those the only choices? I wish you would do a little more telling about the woods, instead of stretching the story out. Can you just tell me what happened?

I’m still battling with Mom about the father/son basketball game. It’s this Friday, at the same time as a regular game. I really don’t want to do it. She wants me to do it and she’s so annoyingly positive about it that it’s almost impossible to argue with her.

I say, “I don’t want to play in that stupid game.”

She says, “It’ll be fine, Trev. You’ll see. You’ll play in it and it’ll be fun.”

“No way am I playing in that stupid game.”

“When you come home from it, you’ll tell me how much fun it was. And I’ll try not to say I told you so.”

“No I won’t! It’s going to suck!”

“Don’t use that word. It’s not going to—you’ll see. It’s going to be just fun.”

On top of that, Donnie wants to canoe down the green river this Saturday. His mom said he could. Mom said it sounds pretty dangerous to her, which is weird for her to say, because usually she doesn’t stress about that sort of thing. She usually wants me to “go have adventures.” I’m thinking maybe she’s holding out on this for a reason I don’t get yet.

Speaking of Mom, I thought you’d be all freaked out about her dating. I’ve got more information on that, like I said. But I’m not going to tell you until you tell me more about The Woods.

You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.

Your son,

Trevor

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