Invisible Fences (4 page)

Still, I refused to wade into the creek. His shouts and stirrings made the water all the more unappealing, and I stepped a little behind Pam to keep out of splashing distance. I could hear the names he called me, though. 

That’s when I solved the problem.  

I picked up the branch Pam had used to dislodge the cardboard box. It was about three feet long, probably enough to extend her reach to Aaron.  

“Use this,” I said, and handed it to Pam. The branch had been too stubborn to snap when Aaron tried earlier to break it off the tree. It would be just as sturdy as a rope. 

Pam poked the stick forward, just as she’d prodded earlier at the cardboard box. She had the advantage this time of using her right arm, so her aim was better. She slapped the end of it at the water next to Aaron, then held it steady for him to grab. 

Which he did. His right hand caught it, then he heaved his left hand and shoulder over. That branch was all he needed: Aaron moved now with an effortless grace, making his previous helpless flailings all the more ridiculous in comparison. A few simple hand over hand motions and he’d pulled his whole torso out of the water. Two steps now, legs high and feet lunging like I’d imagined them earlier, and he made it to the ledge.  

Aaron sat cross-legged on the ground, his arms in front and curling into the mud as if afraid he’d slide back into the water. Even over the steady rumble of the creek, I could hear his heavy, gasping breaths. 

I held out my hand to help him up.  

He raised his head, his mouth a thin line and breaths coming loud through his nose. He pushed my hand away, and stood. 

“I could have drowned,” he said, a calm steady voice that gained strength as he continued. His voice had a raspy quality that sounded less like my friend and more like his older brother. I stepped back from him, edging closer to Pam, beside her, then putting her between us as he invoked the names again, the curses and insults of a child, then a new insult, “coward,” with the added threat that he wanted to kill me. 

I turned and ran back through the woods. 

• • • 

Three sets of footprints marked the path, making it fairly easy for me to retrace my steps away from the creek. I scrambled up the muddy slope, steering wide of the puddle where I’d fallen on the way down. Even in my haste, I sought solid footholds: dry patches of ground, or buried rocks or tree roots that jutted from slick mud.  

When I’d nearly reached the top of the slope, I heard footsteps behind me, splashes and heavy wet slaps of someone taking less care to study the ground as it rolled beneath. I imagined Aaron closing the distance between us, his anger urging him up the slope. He’d dive at my legs to tackle me, climb onto my back and push my face into warm, swampy ground. 

Any other time, I wouldn’t have run from Aaron. We were the same height, but my chubby build gave me the advantage over his thin, gangly body. If we’d ever had cause to fight, I’d have won. Of course, I never expected we’d have reason to come to blows, and my surprise at his anger, at the venom in the words he’d spoken earlier, gave the situation a nightmare quality—as if my friend had been transformed into a rabid animal.  

I worried that panic would cloud my judgment, send me blindly down the wrong fork in the path, one early mistake compounded by each subsequent turn to twist me further and further into unfamiliar territory. The path ahead looked different in reverse; the ground was smeared in both directions, no clear sign which way we’d traveled earlier. I took the fork on the left. 

Perhaps I’d chosen this route simply because it seemed brighter and easier to follow. Shadows from overhanging limbs hatched the dirt, and I hurried from one lighted island of ground to the next. Still, my pursuer edged closer. I heard the slide and slush of sneakers through mud, a quicker pace than mine and accompanied by forceful exhalations of breath I could practically feel on the back of my neck.  

I turned to face my pursuer. 

Pam. 

“Keep going,” she said as she caught up alongside me. Her left hand reached out to rest on my shoulder, urging me forward. “This way,” she said next, and steered me into a nearly hidden path between two trees. A low hanging branch brushed along the top of my head. I didn’t remember ducking beneath this branch when we’d approached from the other side, but I trusted Pam’s sense of direction. Whatever happened, at least we’d still be together. 

Then, under the comfort of Pam’s guidance, I decided to worry about Aaron. I didn’t want him to catch us, obviously, but I also didn’t want to abandon him to wander the woods all alone.  

“Aaron won’t get lost, will he?” 

Pam stopped and leaned against a tree, surprised I’d care what happened to my friend after the way he’d spoken to me back at the creek. She waited a moment, closed her eyes and tilted her head to help her listen, then squinted at the path. She pointed the way we’d come. “He’s right behind us,” she said. 

I saw him in the distance. Aaron’s clothes were so covered with mud they blended into the green and brown like a military camouflage uniform. He was bent over slightly, hands on his knees as he paused to catch his breath.  

Initially, Aaron’s proximity prompted us to move faster through the woods. As our track grew more twisted and confused, however, I continued to worry that he’d lose his way.  

“Where is he?” 

“He’s right behind us,” Pam repeated.  

And he was. Aaron kept a deliberate distance. When Pam and I got tired and slowed down, Aaron slowed as well. If he caught up, he’d have to follow through on his threats and the two of us would get into a fight we’d later regret. If we kept our distance now, in a day or two we’d be back to normal. From my experience, childhood friends never stayed mad at each other for very long. 

Eventually we reached the pile of abandoned lumber, then the unmovable boulder. Aaron could thread his way through these familiar landmarks—no need for us to glance over our shoulders to see where he’d paused with heavy breaths at the latest turn in the path. We sprinted ahead, burst out of the woods, then raced over safely mowed suburban grass toward home. 

Home 

Atlas yapped as we turned the corner into our front yard. I had hoped to get into the house quietly, sneak past Mom who may have fallen asleep on her living room sofa, and change into fresh clothes before she saw me. “Quiet, retard,” I said, but Atlas stood next to an overturned water bowl and continued to bark. Pam kicked the tennis ball toward him, which distracted him for a moment.  

Our mother kept the house locked at all times, as if we lived in what newscasters called a “high crime area.” Flecks of dried mud fell like scabs from my hand as I reached into my pocket for the house key. I opened the screen slowly then eased the key into the knob, twisted, then pushed in the door.  

“Nathan? Come here.”  

We barely had time to shut the door behind us before she’d called out. From the living room, Mom couldn’t see which of us had stepped inside, but she often asked for me specifically. My sister was more independent, more likely to respond “Just a second,” then need to be prompted again five minutes later.  

Pam slid past me to the hallway that led to our bedrooms. I wiped my feet quickly on the foyer mat, brushed at the front of my shorts and headed into the living room.  

The afternoon was still sunny, but the closed shades and curtain might be enough to mask the stains on my clothing and smudges on my hands, knees, and face. If I was lucky, Mom wouldn’t look at me at all: she often kept her eyes on the television screen while she talked to me or Pam. 

“Where you kids been?” 

“Nowhere. Goofing around with Aaron.” 

“You weren’t at their house.” Not really a question: obviously she’d spoken with Mrs. Lieberman on the phone while we were out.  

“No. Their swing set got broken from the rain.” I kept my right hand, the muddiest one, behind my back. She turned her attention to me for a moment, but seemed to stare only at my face instead of at my clothing. A commercial for Promise margarine played in the background. Brightness flickered from the screen, and I imagined waves of color tracking over me like spotlights in a prison yard.  

“Make me a sandwich,” she said. 

“Okay. I have to use the bathroom first.”  

“Wash your hands when you’re done,” she yelled after me. 

The Swings 

It was a while before I gathered up the nerve to visit Aaron. That, and I actually managed to catch a rare summer cold—provoked, no doubt, by the teeming cocktail of germs and smells of the creek. For a few days, Pam had the dubious honor of caring for me and Mom at the same time. 

I headed over alone, approaching the Lieberman’s back yard with cautious steps. The play set had been repaired, and Aaron sat on the furthest swing. His legs hovered over the ground, and his arms grasped the chains on either side. His older brother stood next to him near the support post.  

When he saw me, David walked quickly in front of Aaron and blocked me from approaching. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he said. 

“I wanted to talk to—” 

“You little shit.” David drew closer, a tight fist raised near his chest. He was about a head taller than me, thin like his brother, but with an unpredictable anger that added an air of menace. “You could have helped him.” 

“I did,” I said. It had been my idea to use the stick to pull him out—though obviously Aaron’s version of events had emphasized my cowardice. 

“You left him there,” David said. 

“No. He was right behind us. We went slow, so he could follow us out of the woods.” I kept looking around David’s body, past his raised fist, at Aaron. My friend sat sullenly in the swing and stared at the ground. He wouldn’t even look at me. 

“Tell him the truth, Aaron,” I said. And David hit me. 

I’d always been scared of getting into a fight, of getting beat up by larger, older kids. Now, the blows that landed on my shoulder and my chest weren’t as painful as I’d feared. But the idea of getting hit still frightened me, and I cried out.  

Loud enough that Pam came running. Somehow I’d ended up on the ground, curled into a ball with my hands over my head. David punched at my back a few times before Pam stepped between us.  

She was closer to David’s age, closer to his size, but he didn’t try to fight with her. It was still taboo for a guy to hit a girl, even if she was a tomboy. 

“Come on, Nathan,” Pam said, and motioned me ahead of her toward home.  

I picked myself off the ground. When I glanced back briefly, David held his arms straight against each side, fists clenched. Aaron looked up finally, his face blank and accusing. 

• • • 

Aaron never spoke to me again. The way he managed to represent the story to his family, I had masterminded the visit into the woods. I’d dared him to climb on the log bridge (true, as I’ve already admitted). I’d refused to help him from the water after he fell in the creek, then ran out of the woods with my sister—abandoning Aaron deep in the maze-like paths.  

He’d arrived home covered with mud, and he turned me into an enemy to escape his punishment. No blame for my sister, the eldest and most responsible in our group: I was the friend, and should have looked after Aaron more carefully. Aaron’s parents ordered him to stay away from me. 

Me. Weak, uncoordinated, overweight. The third nerdiest kid in our grade at school. Somehow I’d become a “dangerous influence.”  

Don’t go near that evil, scheming, friend-deserting Nathan, or…-zap!- 

I’d become part of another kid’s invisible fence. 

• • • 

Mom’s friendship with Mrs. Lieberman didn’t last much longer. They had a few phone conversations, but only five minutes each, compared to their usual half-hour gossip sessions. Mom barely spoke during these calls: just a few interjected agreements while Mrs. Lieberman’s voice buzzed from the phone’s tiny speaker in an angry monotone.  

The summer just didn’t feel right anymore, and I wasn’t looking forward to going back to school. No doubt Aaron’s mother had spread the news about me to parents of other kids my age. The “bad-boy” reputation wouldn’t match my physical appearance, and I’d just come across as a jerk, a laughing stock. I’d knock Ralph Fancy out of his number one spot, and that geeky kid would be making fun of
me
soon enough.  

So I wasn’t terribly upset when Dad announced the family was moving at the end of August to Alabama. He knew a school principal in Graysonville, and could get a job as a Special Education teacher. Dad also told me and Pam that he needed a drastic change from the house in Maryland: “Too much of your mother’s papers here, and she won’t let me throw anything away. If some of it gets lost in the move, well, that can’t be helped.” 

A good story, like a lot of Dad’s stories. But I always thought the move was because of me.