Steinbeck in the Forest

James and I are brothers. Well, not exactly, we didn’t know each other for a while, but we like to say that we are. Whenever someone asks “who is that boy you’re with?” I always answer with a smile, “my brother James”. After a long period of sticking our heads in the mud, we finally met at ages eleven and twelve. It was a cold day in the forest and I was out climbing trees. 

You see, I love climbing trees. I don’t know if you’ve ever found a perfect tree, but the feeling when you see a tree ripe for climbing is so potent, like you can’t wait to hang from the branches. That day, I found the perfect tree, a tall birch. As I went to shift my weight to the lowest branch, I heard a grunt. There was James, though I didn’t know his name yet, sitting among the branches with a book in his hand. 

“What’re you doing here? I got here first!” He climbed higher in the tree, holding the leather of the book to his chest.

“How’d you get that high?” I tensed my arm and pulled myself up to the next branch. Even the bark was easy on the hands. I couldn’t believe I’d never climbed it before! It was a great tree, perfect height, and beautiful color, not that color mattered, but it did make a tree pretty. James climbed down a couple of feet, fluid in his movements but never letting the book fall.

“Well, it does help not to look down.” We exchanged a smile, as I rigidly hauled myself up to his level. It was a beautiful view, the lake over to the west twinkling in the sunlight. A bird flitted through the air, not looking ahead of itself and flying straight into a branch. James and I laughed, pointing at the falling feathers. We had some crude humor, we did, as young boys. No one ever thought of us as anything else, only silly boys, but we knew better in our trees and books. 

“Whatcha reading?” I asked one day, our legs dangling in the water of the lake. Fish swam through our toes, tickling the bottom of our calloused feet. He always had his book with him, flipping through pages when he had the time. 

“Eh, I thought this week I’d try to work through Steinbeck. He’s a little bit of a goof but, you know, who isn’t?” I shoved him lightly, peering over his shoulder at the book. It looked a little too dense for me, with too many adverbs, but I was intrigued. “How about you?”

“I’m going for the big ones: Hugo and Tolstoy,” I spoke with wonder, letting the names roll off my tongue in their native accents. James made a face, something between shock and amusement. “What? Why’re you making that face?”

“Oh, you know, you like all of those foreign books, and I’m the American Lit dude.” We stayed silent for a couple more minutes, turning the pages in our leather-bound tomes. The hours I spent reading by the lake with my only friend was one of the greatest delights in my small world. 

“Oh, dang, I promised Mama I’d be home soon.” I sloshed out of the lake, drying off my toes with my jacket. James nodded and muttered a “bye”, and I patted him on the back before running out of the dark woods. 

When the sun enveloped my weak eyes, moisture filled my lower eyelid. James and I spent nearly all of our time together, but there wasn’t an endless supply of books in the forest; I had to get out sometime. Oh, and yeah, I had my Mama. She was eternally supportive of my ambitions, the stacks of books I hauled home. School wasn’t even in the back of her mind when it came to me, as she told me every time I asked what happened in the red schoolhouse. There was nothing I could learn in school that I couldn’t learn from books, she’d said, running her hands through my hair. 

The schoolhouse was up the street, opposite the forest and lake. It had pasty crimson paint on it, crumbling off bit by bit by bit. When all the kids of the Street ran from their houses with backpacks and video games, I laughed from my tree. Well, James laughed too. I didn’t know where his mom was, nor did he seem to care, but it didn’t seem too important in our friendship. 

As I threw the door open, plopping my books onto the counter in the kitchen, no Mama greeted me. It was probably work time, I thought. 

“Mom, I’m home. Mom!” My voice rang through the house to no avail; no sound curled up to meet that of mine. A bit of bile rose through my throat, souring my mouth like a lozenge. Popped into the dining room. Nothing. Popped into the office. Nothing. Popped into the living room. Nothing. Where did she run off to?

“Michael? Michael Crawford?” A foreign voice echoed through the house. It wasn’t James. I didn’t even think he knew where I lived. What was a stranger doing in Mama’s place? "I'm from the Fulbright Orphanage, and I need you to come with me." A cold sweat started to gather on my forehead, dripping down the side through my rough hair. Suddenly, a great thought overcame me, a great feeling. I had to get out. I had to run, run far away. No stranger would come for me, no sir, not today. The shadows seemed to line the walls as I avoided the stranger's line of sight.

Footsteps echoed through the halls by the stairs. If I was going to leave, I’d have to do it soon. I grabbed my books and a banana, rushing out with a backpack in hand. That would have to do for now. I inched slowly out of the back door, trying to make as little noise as possible as it closed behind me. Well, now that that was over with, maybe I’d go find James. 

The cold night closed in around me, an insensitive cloud sweeping across my mind. Nothing weird had happened, nothing out of the ordinary. I was just going to meet with my best friend in the forest like I always did. 

A dark shadow fell over the trees. It felt weird entering the forest so late, hearing the leaves rustle in the dark. Would James still be in there, reading by the trees? A light shone through the trees, a flashlight accompanied by a familiar face that pointed it at me. 

“Mike, what are you doing here? It's like 8 o’clock!” His books were tied over his shoulder. The sudden pain of my situation crashed down on me. The forest was never more than an end of the string, a placeholder for my real home. Now that I had no real home, the other end flailed around like a snake with its head chopped off. James sat me down, offered me some Steinbeck, which I kindly refused. 

“So what happened?” he asked. 

“Well… well… Mama wasn’t at home… and then there was this stranger… some weird person that I didn’t know that was there… so I left.” I gasped for breath when I stumbled through the sentence, despite its simplicity. 

“Oh… well, that sucks, dude. You know, I don’t even have a mom, so now we’re like twins.” I laughed when he spoke, despite the sadness of his words. We sat in the shadow of the tree.

***

The sun rose the following morning, Of Mice and Men still in James's hands. I groggily opened my eyelids, the light blinding my pupil. It was a hot day; I could feel that in the air. I hated hot days, but at least I could swim in the lake. Maybe Mama could get me some ice cream when I got back... Mama... wait, what had happened last night?

A stream of memories replayed through my head, and I inched back away from James. I needed to go home. I needed my bed and the warm embrace of my mother. There was nothing in the world I needed more than her hugs. How had I wound up here?

Sprinting from the forest with heaving breaths, I scrambled to open the door to my house. It was locked from the inside, no amount of my yanking would wrench it open. A panic attack set in, the world closing in on me. Where was Mama? Had I been here before? The paperboy, lazy and careless, threw the paper right in between my eyes and rode on, not caring to apologize. I yelped and looked at the headlines. Hopefully, I would be able to hide out in my trees. My feet collapsed from under me, arms weak as I read the first obituary.

MIRIAM CRAWFORD DIES AT 36 YEARS OLD FROM CANCER. SURVIVED BY ORPHAN CHILD MICHAEL CRAWFORD.

Orphan child, orphan child, was that me? Was I the pitiful wretch torn from my mother by Death? I ran away from my world, fleeing and leaving everything behind as I climbed to my perfect tree. The bark was rough this time, which was odd. I had never known a tree to grow rough over time, but maybe I hadn't been around for long enough. I climbed higher and higher, letting the world fall away until I heard a soft grunt.

"Come on, Mike, take a seat," James said as I cried, "It'll be fine. Come on, I got ya. Have a Steinbeck." I was too weak to refuse the book, grabbing it with a careless hand and quaking fingers. "It's gonna be okay, I promise."