Going Where It's Dark (14 page)

B
uck:
just call me private eye

David:
yeah? who u spying on? male or female?

Buck:
don't know yet someone stealing stuff from the sawmill

David:
he walk away with a saw or what?

Buck:
lumber and plywood mostly. gramps been keeping a record. joel
and i are on watch saturday night. 2 bad ur not here

David:
yeah. i'd rather b caving though

Buck:
me 2

David:
i want to discover something i want something named after me

Buck:
get a dog and name him david II

David:
ha ha i want a cave

Buck:
david's den?

David:
how about weinstein caverns?

Buck:
or not

David:
they'll probably name a weed after me my allergies are awful since we moved

Buck:
so tell your mom pennsylvania's bad 4 your health

David:
its good for hers tho she loves her new job, but not her boss

Buck:
u could always join the navy that's what joel wants 2 do

David:
we could both join navy seals underwater caves and stuff

Buck:
im 2 short 4 the navy

David:
and sharks freak me out

Buck:
bummer

O
n Friday, Buck went looking for all the numbers that Gramps had penciled on the edges of the plywood sheets, the pine boards…everything he kept stored outside under tarps. He found the numbers, faint and shaky—never noticed, perhaps, by a customer, but distinct enough for Buck to catch.

At noon, halfway through the sandwich he had brought, he remembered his appointment with Jacob. He'd already changed it from Thursday to Friday, because he'd been in the woods with Dad and Joel. Jacob was expecting him at one o'clock, and Buck had ridden in with Dad, who let him off with Gramps. He had no bike this time.

His heart thumping, Buck looked Jacob's number up in the directory. He waited until Gramps had gone to the back of the shop to measure a cut for a baseboard, then picked up the phone and punched in Jacob's number.

It rang three times, and then Jacob picked it up. “Jacob here.”

Buck tried, but all he got out was a puff of air.

There was a pause. “Jacob Wall,” the voice said. “Whom am I speaking with?”

“B…Buck.” The answer came in a struggle. “I c…c…c…can't…” He stopped, breathing hard, and tried again. “I c…can't g…g…get…” It was impossible. The words wouldn't come.

“Buck? Where are you?”

“The m…m…m…m…mill. I h…have to w…w…w…work….” Buck's heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and his hand was wet with perspiration.

Jacob's voice was stern, unforgiving: “We had an agreement, Buck.”

“I know, b…b…but my d…dad…”

“See me tomorrow, Buck. Excuses won't work.” The phone clicked.

Buck wiped the sweat off the handset and put it back. Maybe it was time to tell Mom and Dad. But even as he thought it, he shook his head. He could already hear the questions:

Why is Jacob offering this, Buck?

I don't know.

Why isn't he charging?

I'm not sure.

Is the therapy working?

I can't tell yet.

What kind is it?

He used it on soldiers and sailors, that's all I know.

It wouldn't be enough. They'd keep asking. And asking. They'd listen to him stuttering more and ask if it wasn't getting worse. And what if it was?

He explained as best he could on Saturday. But all Jacob said was “If you want to feel better about yourself by the time school starts again, then you come here three times a week. You'll have to make up your third session tomorrow. Will that be a problem?”

“I'll b…be here,” Buck said. There was something challenging in knowing that he was being treated like a military man; the urge to see if he could take it.

The session that followed was more of the same, but this time Buck found himself facing the big mirror that Jacob had propped against the wall. Jacob asked him to recite something from memory—anything—the Pledge of Allegiance, even—and to watch himself in the mirror.

Already the
P
s and the
F
s and the
S
s loomed up before him. Buck made it through the first
P
by crashing forward, bulldozing his way in with explosions of spittle, but by the first
T,
he saw his face transformed, as though it were made of modeling clay. Something, it appeared, was pressing down on his forehead. His teeth were clamped tightly together, his lips stretched into a hard tight line, and he was straining so hard that the sinews on his neck were visible.

“…t…t…t…t…t…to the United St…St…St…States of America, and t…to the r…r…r…r…r…”

It was hideous.
He
was hideous. It was like he was changing into Wolfman, right there in front of his eyes. Was this the way he looked to other people when he stuttered? What friends saw when he tried to tell a joke or a story? What teachers saw when he recited in class?

As before, Jacob worked with him to relax the forehead, the jaws, the lips, the tongue, and when they went through the jaw flapping exercises together, both making the
ploh, ploh
sound, Buck looked so ridiculous that he laughed out loud and this time Jacob actually smiled.

But when Buck tried to recite the Pledge a second time, Jacob stopped him on almost every word.

“Stutter!” he commanded. “Slide right into it, easy like, and stutter as long as I hold my finger in the air. Watch yourself in the mirror.”

Buck took a deep breath and faced the mirror again, Jacob's raised finger very visible off to one side.

“I p…p…p…pledge…”

“I didn't put my finger down. Stutter and keep stuttering, Buck.”

“I p…p…p…ppppp­ppppp­ppppp­pp…”

“Good!”

“Pledge allegiance t…t…ttttt­ttttt­ttttt­to the flag of the United St…St…Ssssss­sssss­sss…”

He got used to it after a while. It was only Jacob, after all. If Jacob could sit in that armchair across from him and listen to this all day, what did it matter?

“…and to the Republic fffff­fffff­fffff­fffff­ffor which it stands…”

It was still embarrassing, whether he kept repeating the first sound or simply holding it for a long time, but it did seem as though he wasn't fighting it quite so much.

Maybe he was doing so well that he could skip Sunday, Buck thought as Jacob said another “Good! Keep it up!”

But when the session was over, Jacob said, “Tomorrow. Whenever you finish your Sunday dinner.”

As Buck headed for the door, he joked, “So when do I g…get the speech about all the famous ppppppppeople who've st…st…st…stuttered? Moses and Isaac Newton and K…King George and M…Marilyn M…Monroe?”

Jacob's eyes too had a twinkle. “You want a speech?”

“Nnnnnot particularly. It's just that anyone who wwwwwrites about stuttering always tttttells about the f…famous people who stuttered.”

“Well, I don't think King George or Moses are going to do you any good. When you're standing in front of the class and your jaws tighten, the fact that King George did it isn't much help. You're you. The sooner we can get you to accept that you are not a stutterer, just a guy who happens to stutter—one of the many things you do—when you can concentrate on the rest of you and the things you have to offer, the better your speech will be.”

And Buck had to believe it, because there wasn't anything else.

Around eleven that night, Dad drove Joel and Buck to the sawmill. The Buick moved slowly around the bends in the road, their wanting to take any truck by surprise that might be parked near the mill. A quarter of a mile away, the two brothers climbed out with sleeping bags to sit on and sandwiches and went the rest of the way on foot.

At the sawmill, the only light came from a bulb just inside the entrance. It illuminated a square patch of concrete beyond the door and window, but the fence and gate were largely in shadow, lit only by an erratic moon that slid in and out of the clouds.

Joel put the key in the lock at the gate, closing it again after them, and went across the clearing to the shop. Once inside, they placed their sleeping bags in the shadows on either side of the entrance, then sat across from each other so they were facing in two directions.

The shop smelled of fresh-cut wood, old oil and new paper, of metal and printer toner.

When the first hour had gone by, Joel said, “This. Is. The. Slowest. Hour. I. Ever. Spent. In. My. Life.”

Buck laughed. “W…which would you r…rather be? T…tired or bored?”

“Tired,” said Joel.

“Cold or b…bored?”

“Cold,” said Joel. “Shoot, I'd rather be almost anything than bored. That's why I want to join the navy.”

His brother was serious about it, Buck realized. He silently stretched one leg, then the other, and tried to make out Joel's face in the darkness, but all he got was a faint pale blur.

“Wh…what would you d…do in the navy?”

“Whatever they tell me to do. Eat when they say eat. Sleep when they say sleep. Heck, I'll bet you even spit when they say spit.”

“Not m…me. I'd hate for s…somebody to always be telling me what to d…do.”

“Well, that's what you've got here, isn't it? Dad and Gramps always calling the shots? Work in the shop: I'm in the shop. Cut timber: that's where I'm at. Trees and sawdust. That's all I see. At least in the navy you learn new things, go new places—see the world. We've been looking at the same darn hills since we learned to walk….”

“Shhhh.” Buck suddenly learned forward. “Something's out b…by the fence.”

Joel crawled over on his hands and knees. “Where?”

“To the l…left of the gate.”

“Don't see it. How high up?”

Buck gave a disgusted sigh. “Aw, j…just an old fox. What's she think she's g…going to find to eat around here?”

Joel leaned back against the wall and put his hands behind his head. “Didn't you ever want to do something different, Buck? I mean, I'm not knocking it, if you like to hang around home. It's pretty here, I'll grant you that. But me? I just want to get away.”

It was all Buck could do to keep his secret. Yes, he wanted to do something different too. He wanted to see what was down
under
the earth they'd grown up on. Go somewhere that nobody—not even the United States Navy—had ever been.

“Yeah, I think about it sometimes,” he said. “Have to w…w…wait and see what happens.”