Gone to the Forest: A Novel (4 page)

Quickly, the girl reaches for her fork. She spears the flesh, breaking off
a large piece and lifting it to her mouth. Her lips are pale and dry and cracked at the
edges. It is the weather,
Tom thinks. She is not used to the dryness
of this country. She edges her mouth around the meat and swallows it whole. Tom looks
down at his plate and slashes the fish with his fork.

The table is silent. Tom can hear her chewing. The indelicate chomping of
her teeth and the loud gulp when she swallows. She continues chewing as she reaches for
her water glass. They sit and stare at the girl. She takes a long swallow of water to
wash the food down. Then she looks directly at his father and smiles—smiles so the
rims of her teeth, which are small and white, show between her lips.

“I like it.”

He nods and smiles.

“Thomas caught the fish earlier today.”

He looks at his son. She follows the old man’s gaze and turns to
look at Tom. She is still smiling. There is nothing timid about her now. Her eyes are
bold and jumping. He looks into them and the corners of her mouth turn further upward.
Like she is amused. Confused, he glares at her then looks down at his plate and forks up
a mouthful of fish.

“Thomas is a natural fisherman. It is in his blood.”

Tom knows his father is making fun of him. The old man smiles at him. Tom
nods and then looks away. It amuses the old man to mock his son in front of strangers.
Not that Tom cares what Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Wallace and this girl think. He does not
care in the least.

“Thomas is a young man of many abilities.”

Now his father is looking at the girl. He is still smiling. The
girl is watching him and despite all her wiles she is in danger of
growing fascinated. Tom can already tell. His father is more than twice her age but her
eyes are pinned to his lips as he speaks to her in his fur-lined baritone. The old man
cheats wild horses of their freedom with this voice. It runs deep into his chest, silky
smooth and dry.

Tom dislikes the girl and is fearful of her. But he does not want her to
her fall into the old man’s trap. Tom lives at the bottom of the trap. There is
not very much space and he does not want to share his father with her. Tom has spent a
lifetime watching people fall down the hole. He has never enjoyed the company. The girl
looks at his father. She widens her eyes. It is too late, he thinks. She is already
falling.

“Thomas can take you fishing some time. If you like.”

“I would like.”

She says the three words evenly and quickly. What she says—the
would
and the
like
—has nothing
to do with fishing or with Tom or with anything that has been discussed at the table,
anything that has been said out loud, since they arrived on the farm in their car.

Or perhaps it does. Have to do with everything that has happened since
they arrived. Because now his father leans forward. His eyes rest on Tom and then return
to the girl. He smiles. She smiles. The whole table smiles. Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Wallace
sit back and for the first time that evening Mr. Wallace cracks a smile that is broad as
daylight.

Only Tom does not smile. He glares at the dinner guests. They would do
better to be cautious. They are beaming at
his father—they
grin and grin, mouths wide open—but they would do better to be aware of the
situation they have walked into. Whatever that situation may be. The Wallaces are fools.
They are no match for his father.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Tom oversees the storage of
the outdoor furniture. All summer the lawn and veranda are dotted with daybeds and
settees. Today they gather the furniture from the lawn—the sign that the summer
season is officially over. It is a full day’s work. The servants bring the tables
and chairs to the veranda. The wood needs oiling and there are necessary repairs.

Tom stands in the middle of the fray. He directs the servants. He inspects
the polish. He checks the removal of the stains. His father stops to observe the
proceedings. He brushes a hand against the wood. It has been made to order in the style
of the furniture back in the old country. A reminder of the separation between the farm
and the rest of the country, it is also the separation itself. The barrier being made of
furniture and teapots. The old man nods approval and waves to the servants to continue.
Then he motions for Tom to follow.

They walk around the veranda and out to the lawn. His father stops and
looks in the direction of the servants on the veranda. They are bent over the furniture.
Two men pick up a table and move in the direction of the storeroom.

“That’s a good job.”

Tom is pleased. It is true it is a good job. He has exerted
himself today, they all have. He notes that his father is in a good
mood. Perhaps he slept well. The Wallaces left early, knowing better than to wear out
their welcome. The farm is theirs again. Tom stands beside his father, in what he
believes to be the glow of his approval.

The father invites the son to sit down. There are two chairs that have not
been taken in, that stand forgotten in the middle of the lawn. Tom sits down. His father
sits down next to him. He crosses his legs at the ankles. He folds his hands into a
steeple and taps finger to knuckle.
Buh buh buh.
He sits and
watches his son. He does not look out at the land. He does not look at the river, which
is visible down the slope of land and through the trees. He looks at Tom.

“What do you think of Carine?”

Tom shrugs.

“She is pretty, no?”

Tom stares at his father. He cannot believe that his father can be serious
about this girl and yet. And yet he is sitting here in this way, with his son, and he is
telling him that he finds the girl pretty. He shakes his head. His father smiles and
looks amused.

“No? Come, Thomas. You must admit that she is pretty.”

He shrugs again.

“For a country boy you have high standards.”

The old man pauses. Is watching him.

“Mrs. Wallace hoped you might take a fancy to the girl.”

His father, still watching him. The realization dawns on Tom. The girl is
intended for him. That was the purpose of
the visit. The meaning of
the looks that passed between the Wallaces and his father. He does not easily believe
it—he approaches the idea cautiously, because it is not often that the father
thinks of the son.

But what does he think of the girl? The thought of her returns abruptly
and he does not know what he thinks. He thinks of her pale skin and her small sharp
teeth and before he knows it the girl is settling inside his mind. Turning and making a
home for herself there. He shakes his head.

“Soon you will be running the farm.”

Tom looks up. His father has never said this, he has never put it into
words. The promise has been understood but never actually stated. The date never
articulated in terms such as
soon.
But now the old man has
spoken the words and the difference is palpable, the difference is clear as daylight.
Tom clears his throat. He tries to smile. He would like to thank his father but knows it
would not be the thing. His father continues. More gently.

“You will. And when you do, a woman—”

He pauses, as if in consideration of his own past. He makes a minor
correction.

“—a woman, of the right kind, will be a great help.”

He wonders if his father believes that the girl is a woman of the right
kind. A woman of the right kind, for a certain kind of thing. The thought of the girl
returns to him like a flood and she kicks inside his brain.

“I told Mrs. Wallace that I thought you were not opposed to the
idea.”

He pauses.

“I thought that she liked you. Did you not?”

It has been decided. He hears the decision in his father’s voice. It
is almost a comfort. For a second he thought his father was asking. The idea of the girl
and the idea of his choice—a choice, the choice of a woman—had spread
through his body like a rash. Now the idea is gone and his body is restored to health.
He nods and considers the slope of land running to the river. Soon to be his.

“Take her fishing.”

A courting amongst the dorado—a terrible thought. Tom is now an
excellent fisherman. On a good day he can outfish his father. He is slow and
obstinate—good qualities in a fisherman. Whereas his father sees the sport as a
contest of wills, a question of winning and domination. He is too easily drawn in. Tom
only wants to capture the fish and bring it home and eat it.

It hardly matters. He is a good fisherman but he is still terrified of the
fish. Everything about the animal is foreign to him. The gaping mouth and the razor
sharp teeth—sharper than the teeth of any other animal, sharp in a way that has
nothing to do with the necessities of the civilized world. The scales are so bright gold
that he is sometimes blinded by the color of the fish, as in the brightness of the
sun.

He will take her fishing. He will woo her on the river. His father has
chosen. The old man watches him and then stands up and strides away. He does not say
anything further. Tom sits and listens to the sound of his feet on the lawn. The lawn
is empty and he hears the old man’s steps longer than is
natural. It is oppressive but there is a comfort in it. Tom does not like to be
alone.

H
E TAKES THE
girl fishing and a week
later they are engaged. He does not know how the engagement happens. One minute they are
fishing and the next Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Wallace are standing with his father on the
veranda. There are champagne bottles being opened, toasts being made, and in the middle
of it the girl. She wears the ring his father gave him to give her. His mother’s
ring: the talisman of a failed contract.

Still, in the week since the engagement he has become painfully aware of
the girl. Her presence brings on the migraine—he cannot think clearly, he needs to
lie down. He thinks of her like this; he imagines stretching out beside her. He thinks
he is in love with her. With this patch of land that will soon be his. It is
small—a mere one foot by five feet and barely a hundred pounds—but it will
be his, to do with as he likes. This plot of earth. That he will take to his bed as he
likes, and keep close beside him.

A man feels a certain way toward his property. And Tom has never owned
anything in his life. So he is in danger of being carried away, only he is a man both
phlegmatic and wary. He does not know how to lose his head. He sees that the girl can
look after herself. She lands on her feet like a cat dropped out a window. Being nimble
in mind and body. But here she comes—she stands beside him, behind him, the
fabric of her dress grazing his elbow, his hand, and it is hard not
to feel what he feels. Her hair brushes against his shoulder and again he feels what he
feels.

Although it has to be said. He can feel and feel away but the coupling,
now official, is far from fully achieved. He has barely touched the girl. He is all too
conscious of the fact. There was a churlish kiss—churlish on whose side? He hardly
knows but suspects his own—in front of his father and the Wallaces. At the time of
the champagne bottles and the toasts. And then very little since. He has touched her
hand but not held it. Once he touched the small of her back.

She is cool and hard. Like marble or some other stone. He touches her neck
and she leans back against the hand. Only for a second. The flesh is nonresponsive. It
is like he is not even touching her, like his hand has been obliterated by her coldness.
He puts his hand away. He admits that he does not know how to approach her. She is
different from the others. Not that there have been any: Tom knows nothing about the
ways of women.

It does not trouble him too much. There is enough time. There is all the
time in the world! They will be married and then there will be many months, months and
years and decades, in which to learn how best to approach the girl. He sees her like a
piece of wild game. He is just circling and circling and taking his time. Eventually he
will throw ropes around her neck and legs and yank her to the ground.

Meanwhile, the Wallaces are at the farm all the time, with all their
civilization. They arrive in the afternoon for
tea. They stay for
dinner after tea. Lately the house is only empty in the morning. His father tolerates
their company. He has found his son a mate. The change in routine is a small price to
pay for it. Tom knows that his father does not like the Wallaces. Tom does not like them
either. They sit on the chairs like they already belong to them, eyeing the silver,
eating the food.

Checks are put into place. It will not do to let the Wallaces loose upon
the farm. Mrs. Wallace goes so far as to ask Celeste to prepare a dish for supper.
“The lamb we ate last week. Perhaps you could make it tonight?” As if she
were already mistress of the house. The old man is obliged to send them away. The
Wallaces do not come to the farm that day or the next. Nor does the girl. Tom becomes
anxious without her. Finally his father telephones and orders them to send the girl to
tea.

The girl comes alone. She has put on a fresh dress, bright yellow with a
pattern of flowers. Hesitating, she steps onto the veranda and he comes forward to greet
her. She says to him that she has already taken the dress in twice. She is shrinking,
she is wasting away. It is the heat, she says. It is the food. She cannot find the food
that she is used to here. She smiles at him and shrugs. He does not know what to say. It
is true that her color is feverish. They are alone for the first time since they have
been engaged.

Cautiously, she puts her hand on his arm. She is still smiling. He stares
down at her and doesn’t move. She tightens her grip. She begins to angle his body
closer to hers. He thinks
that is what she is doing—he
isn’t entirely sure. He feels panic. What does the girl want from him? What is it
she expects? The panic grows and abruptly he shakes her hand off.