A Week in the Woods (12 page)

At three o'clock Mark and his cabin mates headed back to the Raven's Nest for a half-hour break before the next activity. The cabin had cooled off a little, so Mr. Frost got the poker off the wall by the fireplace, opened the door of the stove, and raked some live coals toward the front of the firebox. Then he put a couple of small logs into the stove, shut the door, and began to fiddle with the airflow adjustment.

Mark sat down on his bed. After unlacing his hiking boots, he pulled his pack out from under the bunk to look for his Jack London book. Jason sat down at the other end of Mark's mattress and started rooting around in his suitcase.

Just as Mark found his book, Jason whispered, “Hey, Mark, check this out.” Looking around carefully, he reached toward Mark with something in his hand. Mark put out his hand, and as he took it, Jason whispered, “Turn toward me so no one sees it.”

Mark held the thing close to his body and took a quick look down. It was a brown leather case, about four inches long, an inch and a half wide, and one inch thick. The flap on the front was held shut with a round copper snap. There had once been some gold lettering on the flap, but it was mostly worn away. The thing weighed a lot, almost half a pound.

“Go on,” urged Jason, “take it out.”

Mark tugged the snap open, lifted the flap, and pulled out something made of stainless steel. Turning it over in his hands, it looked like two separate rectangles of metal, hinged together at one end. Then Mark knew what it was. He'd seen things like this on the REI Web site. They called them “multitools.”

He nodded at Jason and whispered, “Cool!” Taking hold at the end opposite the hinge, Mark pulled the sides of the tool outward, folded them all the way around, and in two seconds the object was transformed into a pair of sturdy needle-nose pliers. “This is great!” And it was. The tool was wonderfully made, solid and heavy in his hand.

The door of the cabin slammed, and Mark turned instinctively toward the sound. Then he quickly turned back and tucked the tool under his leg.

Mr. Maxwell stood in the doorway. He talked to the whole cabin, but his eyes kept coming back to Mark. “How's it going here in the Raven's Nest? Looks like you've got everything you need. I'm just checking every cabin to make sure everyone's comfortable. You guys are great, though. Got a fire going, got your woodpile started—looks like you're all set!”

Mr. Frost was on his feet, smiling at Mr. Maxwell. “We're doing fine, just fine. Terrific bunch of boys here. And we can't wait for dinner!”

“Won't be long now,” said Mr. Maxwell, “right
after your meetings with the subject teachers. I'll see you all there, okay?”

He turned, put his hand on the doorknob, and then hesitated.

Turning back around, he walked over to Mark. He pointed down at the bunk and said, “Unless I'm mistaken, you're hiding something under your leg there. Am I mistaken?”

Mark gulped. Then he shook his head. “No. You're right. It's a tool.” And he reached under his leg, picked it up, and held it out.

Mr. Maxwell took it from him. In his big hands the tool looked like a toy. He turned it over once or twice. Then he bent the ends around and folded the pliers back into the handles.

Holding it up between his big thumb and forefinger, Mr. Maxwell wagged the tool at Mark and said, “I'm sorry I found this. You shouldn't have this here.” Nodding at the bed he said, “Hand me the sheath.”

Mark gave it to him.

Pointing below the bunk Mr. Maxwell said, “Grab your pack and get all your stuff into it.”

Mark was confused. “All my stuff? Why?”

“Why?” said Mr. Maxwell. “I'll tell you why. Because of this.” And holding the tool in one hand he flipped at the edge with his thumb. Out popped a four-inch blade. “
This
is a knife. And the instructions for A Week in the Woods said no student was to bring
a knife of any kind. But it's more than that. Because this is a school-sponsored event. So this is really school, just like a field trip or an assembly. And our district has a zero-tolerance rule about bringing weapons to school. So this, this
knife
means you are going to be suspended from school.”

Mr. Maxwell folded the knife blade back into the handle, put the tool into its case, and then dropped it into his jacket pocket. “So like I said, pack up all your stuff. Now. You know what my truck looks like? The old blue GMC?”

Almost in a daze, Mark nodded.

Mr. Maxwell said, “It's parked in the lot by the gatehouse. Toss your stuff in the back and wait for me in the cab. You're going home.”

Then Mr. Maxwell turned and walked out the door.

Except for the metallic creaking of the woodstove, it was silent in the Raven's Nest. Mark's face was burning hot. Feeling as if he was moving in a dream, he stood up, turned around, bent down, and started rolling his sleeping bag.

Jason jumped to his feet. Mark looked up, and Jason pointed at himself, mouthing the words, “I should tell.”

Mark shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I'm the one who got caught. I'll get in less trouble than you would. Really. It's okay.”

It took Mark less than three minutes to load his
pack and strap the rolled sleeping bag to the bottom. He stepped clear of the bunk, swung the pack around onto his back, and walked to the door. Stopping, he looked back, glancing from face to face around the room. He saw a lot of pale faces, even a couple of watery eyes.

Forcing a thin smile to his lips, Mark said, “See you, guys . . . sorry.”

Then he left.

It took Mr. Maxwell about fifteen minutes to locate Mrs. Stearns. After checking over at the girl's cabins, he walked back and found her at the main lodge.

Taking her aside, he explained what he had to do. “And I'm going to have to leave you in charge for a couple of hours, all right?”

“My
goodness,
” she said, shaking her head. “You'd think that boy would have more sense than to do something so stupid. But sooner or later everybody's got to learn that ‘no' means ‘no,' even when your daddy's got half a billion dollars. I'll keep things on track here, Bill, but please hurry back.”

Walking along the roadway toward the gatehouse, Mr. Maxwell assured himself that he was doing the right thing.
The rules are the rules, and they've got to be obeyed,
he said to himself.
I can't make an exception here, not even if I wanted to.

And the odd thing was, part of Mr. Maxwell wanted to. He almost wished he could let Mark off the hook.

He had watched Mark earlier during the scavenger hunt. The boy really got into it. Such a difference from the way he'd been acting in science class! Of course, lately Mr. Maxwell knew that he hadn't been any help at all, hadn't exactly been encouraging Mark to participate. He'd been stiff-arming the kid every chance he got.

But watching Mark this afternoon, seeing him scramble around through the brush, laughing and shouting to his friends, Mr. Maxwell's heart had begun to soften a little. He'd been tempted to consider giving the kid another chance—not wipe the slate clean or anything, but just ease up on him a bit and see what would happen.

And now this.

Mr. Maxwell kept quizzing himself, testing his motives. He asked himself,
If it had been some other kid, would I have reacted like this? Or would I have just said, “Nice tool, but you better let me keep it till the week is over.” Would I?

But the fact was, it wasn't some other kid. It was
this
kid, Mark Robert Chelmsley.
And if I
did
let him off on this, it wouldn't be good for him.
That's what Mr. Maxwell told himself, and he believed it. It was like Mrs. Stearns had said: Everybody's got to learn about obeying rules, and sometimes you have to learn the hard way.

At the door of the gatehouse, Mr. Maxwell paused, his hand on the knob. Looking across the wide parking lot he could see the roof of his blue pickup, and he thought of the boy sitting in the front seat. And he thought,
Kid's been over there stewing in his own juices for twenty minutes now. Maybe that's been enough. Maybe he's learned his lesson.
But his years of experience kicked in and said,
No. Discipline isn't discipline unless you follow through and make it stick.

Inside, the ranger was on the phone. “Yeah . . . I'll hold.” Covering the mouthpiece, he said, “Hey, Bill! Good to see ya!”

Mr. Maxwell nodded and smiled as he leaned across the counter and shook the man's hand.

Pointing at the phone, the ranger said, “Only be a minute here.” Speaking into the phone again, he said, “Hey, Tommy! It's Jim Pletcher, over at Gray's Notch. . . . Yeah, pretty good. Tell me, d'you think you could get a vacuum truck over here tomorrow morning? I think the pit behind the main sanitary unit must have picked up some groundwater over the winter. . . .Yeah, been some complaints. . . . Yup, that's what it smells like. . . . 'preciate it, Tommy. See you tomorrow.”

Hanging up, he turned to Mr. Maxwell, smiling broadly. “Sorry I missed you this morning. Looks like a great gang of kids. Just like old times, every spring. Now, what can I do ya for?”

“Just need to use the phone, Jim. Got sort of an emergency.”

“Jeeze, Bill! Shoulda told me to hang up!” Handing Mr. Maxwell the receiver, he said, “Here—anything I can help with? You need a vehicle or anything?”

“No, no, it's not a real emergency, Jim. Just a kid who's going home. Kind of a smart-mouth rich kid—thinks the rules are for everyone else. Little bit of a tough guy.”

“What, he start a fight or somethin'?” asked the ranger. “Take a poke at you?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Mr. Maxwell. “He had a knife.”

“Jeeze! Kid come at you with a knife?! Did he cut ya?”

Mr. Maxwell shook his head and put his hands up. “Whoa, Jim, slow down. He didn't come at me with anything. He just had the knife with him. It's a Leatherman, one of the big ones.” Mr. Maxwell took the tool out of his pocket and laid it on the counter.

The ranger picked it up and took it out of its sheath. Turning it over a few times in his hands, he squinted at it. Glancing up at the teacher, he said, “Jeeze, Bill. It isn't really
that
big, is it? And it's more of a tool, too. The kid's gettin' sent home for this? Gonna miss the whole week?”

Mr. Maxwell nodded. “It's a weapons rule. Probably be suspended, too. No knives at any school activity.”

The ranger studied the tool again and then squinted up into Mr. Maxwell's face. “Even here at a state park? In the woods and all? I'm not telling you how to run your program here, Bill, but that seems pretty rough. Did you give the kid a chance to say he was sorry or anything? I mean, I could talk to him, if you want me to—y'know, be extra serious and everything? When I get my hat on I can look real official, throw a good scare into him if you want. What d'you say? I'm sure I can get through to him. What's the boy's name?”

Mr. Maxwell smiled and shook his head. “His name is Mark, and I thank you, Jim, but I know this kid. Somebody's got to come down hard on him. Might as well be me. Best thing for him. Um . . . would you mind stepping outside for a minute? This won't take long. It'll be a toll call, but the school'll pay for it.”

The ranger nodded and went out the door, still holding on to the tool.

When the ranger came back inside a minute later, Mr. Maxwell was talking on the phone, trying not to lose his temper. “Yes, I understand that Mr. Chelmsley isn't home right now, but surely you've got a number where he could be reached. . . . I know it's later over there, but I'm sure he'd want me to wake him up. This is important.”

The ranger motioned for Mr. Maxwell to cover the mouthpiece. Then he said, “Bill, tell those folks you'll call 'em right back, okay?”

Mr. Maxwell shook his head. “Jim, I'm handling this. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but—”

The ranger put his hand on Mr. Maxwell's arm and looked him in the eye. “Bill, just tell 'em you'll call back. Go on, tell 'em that. Right now.”

Lips pressed tightly together, Mr. Maxwell took his hand off the mouthpiece and said, “Hello? Yes, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to call you back, all right? . . . Yes, everything's fine. . . . Yes, Mark is fine. I'll call you back. Good-bye.”

Turning to squarely face the ranger, Mr. Maxwell said, “Jim, I know you—”

“Bill,” said the ranger, holding up his hand, “forget all that, and just answer me one question: This boy's name is Mark—what's his last name?”

“Chelmsley,” snapped Mr. Maxwell. “His last name is Chelmsley, but I've already told you . . .”

The ranger held up his hand again. “Hear me out, Bill. If this boy's name is Mark Chelmsley, then what do you make of this?”

Handing the knife to Mr. Maxwell, the ranger pointed at the flat side of the handle. Mr. Maxwell had to hold the knife almost at arm's length, and when he did and tilted it to catch the light, he saw what the ranger was talking about. Something was scratched into the brushed finish on the stainless steel, some crude letters. Squinting, he looked again, and the letters snapped into focus: Jason Frazier.

“Jason Frazier!” Mr. Maxwell let out a long breath and sank into the chair at the desk. “This is
terrible
!”

The ranger watched Mr. Maxwell, watched the waves of thought roll across his face. First amazement, then relief. Then something that the ranger had to call pain—deep pain.

“This is awful, Jim! I've been mad at this kid for weeks because he's kind of spoiled and he's got a smart mouth, and today I jump all over him about this knife and I'm about to send him home and get him suspended from school. And all he's doing is taking the heat for his friend—that's Jason. In his cabin. This is awful! I've got to go talk to him.”