A Week in the Woods Page 4

  A few quick strides took him to the back of the room. “Mark?”

  The boy jerked his head around and flinched as Mr. Maxwell said his name. Then the bell sounded, and Mr. Maxwell saw Mark flinch again.

  Speaking loudly enough to be heard above the sudden burst of noise in the room, he said, “Mark, stay after a second, will you? I’ve got something you need to take home this weekend.”

  For a second Mark looked like he was going to bolt out of his seat and dash for the door. Then he relaxed a little, stood up slowly, and grabbed his backpack.

  “Just come up to my desk,” Mr. Maxwell said, leading the way. “This’ll only take a minute or two.”

  Mark walked to the front of the room and stopped about two feet to the left of Mr. Maxwell’s desk. The teacher rustled through some papers and then looked over at him with a smile.

  “Have you heard the kids talking about A Week in the Woods?”

  Mark looked at him blankly.

  “Haven’t heard a thing about it?”

  Mark’s face remained expressionless and he shook his head.

  “Well, it’s a week when the whole fifth grade goes to a state park campground together. And it’s like a campout, except we spend some time each day doing science and ecology observations, and some other assignments and experiments, too. But mostly it’s a lot of fun. Here,” and Mr. Maxwell held out a set of stapled pages.

  Mark took them and glanced down. The cover had some student artwork of cabins and trees and mountains surrounding the title of the program.

  “We’ve been doing this here in Whitson for a lot of years now, and all the kids have a great time, and so do the teachers. Parents, too. We always need all the helpers and chaperones we can get. If your folks wanted to help out, they’d be welcome.”

  When he said that, Mr. Maxwell thought he saw a flash in the boy’s eyes.

  Mark said, “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it, really. The packet has a lot of good information—a permission form you need to get signed and bring back, all the dates, things you need to bring with you, things not to bring.” As he kept talking, Mark began flipping through the pages. “The school provides all the meals, there are boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses, and the restrooms and the shower facilities are almost as nice as home. It’s really a great experience. Any questions you want to ask about any of it? I’ve been at this a few years, so . . .”

  Mark looked up from the packet and said, “Does everyone have to go?”

  “‘Have to go?’” Mr. Maxwell was stunned. “Well . . . I mean . . . everyone always does. It’s really a lot of fun. I’m sure you’re going to have a great time, Mark.”

  “So everyone has to go?” Mark asked again.

  Mr. Maxwell stood up quickly and his chair banged back against the chalk rail. “I guess I haven’t explained it well enough, Mark. This is the best week of the whole school year. Every kid who wasn’t sicker than a dog has always been dying to go.” Mr. Maxwell was leaning forward and he felt like he was talking too loud and too fast, but he couldn’t help it. “I mean, don’t you see? It’s like a whole week of playing hooky, so why wouldn’t a kid want to go? But if you’re going to put it that way, there are assignments every day, and there are grades for those assignments, and if you want to think of it that way, then, yes, every fifth-grade student has to go.”

  There was silence for a second, and then Mark said, “Unless he gets sick.”

  Mr. Maxwell clenched his jaw and glared down at Mark. “Right. Unless he gets sick.”

  Mark wasn’t flinching now. He looked Mr. Maxwell in the eye and asked, “Anything else? That you need to give me?”

  With all his heart Mr. Maxwell wanted to give this smart-faced kid a serious piece of his mind. But he managed to take a deep breath and say, “No. That’s it. If you or your parents have any questions, let me know. Have a good weekend.” And he turned abruptly, grabbed an eraser, and began sweeping it across the chalkboard with sharp, jerky strokes.

  He heard Mark’s footsteps out in the hall, but Mr. Maxwell didn’t turn around. He kept on erasing. He heard the fire door clang shut. By then, the chalkboard was completely clean, but Mr. Maxwell didn’t stop erasing until he’d gone over the whole thing two more times.

  * * *

  When Mark came out the front door of the school, the buses were just pulling away. He walked over to where Leon was parked, yanked the passenger door open, dropped his book bag onto the floorboard, climbed in, pulled the heavy door shut, and fastened his seatbelt.

  Leon nodded and smiled, but didn’t offer a greeting. He had learned that right after school was not a good time to chat. The door locks clicked as he put the car into gear and drove out of the school driveway.

  Mark took a deep breath and settled back into the seat. Music from a dozen speakers filled the space around him. Jazz. Leon always listened to jazz after school.

  Mark looked past the wipers at the falling snow. He sat forward so he could see better. There was no wind, and the snow was forming little piles on the limbs of the trees and on the telephone wires beside the road. And as he began to think about the snow building up on the hills around his house and on the roof of the barn, the school week began to melt away.

  Halfway home, Mark thought, Saturday and Sunday. Two whole days. And he smiled to himself, his first real smile of the day.

  They drove the five miles past the west edge of town. When Leon turned into the long drive, Mark was caught off guard again by the beauty of the place. It wasn’t the weathered house or the dull red barn or the dark rock walls that framed the frozen pond farther down the hillside. It wasn’t the stand of pine trees along the ridge to the west, or the top of Mount Washington far to the northeast, hidden now by snow clouds, but still there. It wasn’t any one thing. It was everything all together that dazzled him.

  As Leon stopped the car to wait for the electric opener to lift the door, Mark jumped out, grabbed his backpack, scooted around behind the car, and dashed for the mudroom door. “Thanks for the ride, Leon!”

  Leon smiled and waved, then eased the heavy car forward into the garage. He chuckled to himself, nodding. He knew the change in Mark’s spirits weren’t just because it was Friday afternoon.

  Leon had seen it happen day after day. He looked forward to it now, like a daily miracle. Every afternoon it was as if a bitter old man came limping out of the school and crawled into the car. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, but by the time they reached home, that angry little man became a completely different person: Mark turned into a boy again.

  Eight

  Discoveries

  Mark had already been to his room to change into his warm pants and socks. Anya caught him rushing through the kitchen, zipping up his coat. Hands on her hips, she blocked his way. “No you don’t.”

  “Anya, I don’t have time. And I’m really not hungry.”

  She pointed at the kitchen table. “Sit and eat. You are a growing boy, and outside it is very cold.” It was the same every afternoon. She always made him eat before he went out.

  So Mark sat down, popped a cookie into his mouth and took a gulp of chocolate milk. Anya turned and walked into the laundry room. Before she could come back to inspect, Mark drained the glass and stuffed the other cookies and the apple slices into his coat pocket. He tiptoed to the mudroom, pulled on his boots, grabbed his hat and gloves, and slipped out the door. He had important business in the barn.

  * * *

  From his very first morning at the new house, Mark had been itching to get outdoors and explore. But he’d had to wait. That first Saturday, two weeks ago, his parents had arrived about noon. His mom had planned a family weekend.

  “Family weekend” was one of his mom’s code phrases, and Mark knew what it meant. It meant that on Sunday night or early Monday morning, his parents would be leaving again. They would spend some quality time together over the weekend. And since Mark was sure his mom’s idea of quality time didn’t include tramping
around out in the cold, the outdoors would have to wait until the family weekend was over.

  Mark and his mom and dad had taken a drive together late Saturday afternoon. They drove through Whitson, and stopped to take a look at the school Mark would be attending. His dad had said, “Looks pretty small, don’t you think?”

  But his mom quickly said, “I’ve talked with Mrs. Gibson, the principal, and it’s a fine little school. It’ll be a good experience. And besides, Mark’s only going to be here a few months.”

  There wasn’t a lot to see in Whitson, so they’d headed sixteen miles east to Atlinboro. It was larger, but there wasn’t that much to see there either. They drove around the old center of town, and his mom commented on the quaintness of the homes. They drove past the new mall on the outskirts of town, and his dad commented on how slow business must be during the winter. Then they drove back to the new house.

  Saturday night Anya had cooked steaks on the indoor grill, and Mark and his parents ate dinner in the old dining room. Later Mark sat between his mom and dad in their new home theater. They watched a movie, and ate popcorn and Milk Duds and drank some strawberry soda.

  When the movie was over, his dad yawned and said, “I’ve got to turn in, guys. That flight from San Francisco was a beast. You coming to bed now, Lo?”

  His mom nodded, and it was her turn to yawn. “It’s been a long day, but a good one. It’s so quiet here. I love that, don’t you Mark?”

  Mark said, “I don’t know yet. But I can deal with it.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” his dad said. “I’ve been telling your mom to stop worrying about you. When things change, you just have to tough it out. And believe me, everything keeps changing. All your life, that’s the one thing you can count on.” He yawned again as he stood up. “See you tomorrow, kiddo,” and he gave Mark a pat on the back as he left the room.

  When they were alone, his mom said, “Mark, we’re going to have to leave tomorrow afternoon. Will you be okay? I know it’s a lot to get used to all at once. And I’m sorry we can’t be here for your first day at the new school. But we have to be in New York, and that’s that.”

  Mark said, “It’s okay. Really. I’m glad you came . . . home.”

  And Mark had meant it. He was glad they cared enough to take a cross-country plane trip just to spend a little time with him. Mark knew lots of kids at Lawton Country Day School whose parents wouldn’t have bothered.

  While his dad slept in on Sunday morning, Mark and his mom feasted on fresh-baked Russian pastries, one of Anya’s specialties. After breakfast, Mark said, “You know about the room where they say the runaway slaves hid, right? I found it. C’mon.”

  Together they wound their way up the narrow steps, Mark in the lead. The room was tiny, just big enough for a rope-frame bed and a small washstand. The walls were made of rough pine boards, and the only light came filtering up from the cupboard door below. Mark’s mom had to duck to keep from bumping into the low-beamed ceiling.

  Mark ran his hand along the rail of the bed. He whispered, “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  His mom nodded, and then they tiptoed back down the stairs.

  Sunday afternoon Mark had gone along for the ride when Leon drove his parents to the regional airport.

  At the gate his mom said, “We’ll try to be back for next weekend, sweetheart. We love you very much. And you have a good first week at your new school, all right?”

  Mark smiled and nodded, “Sure thing.”

  “That’s my boy,” and his dad tousled his hair. “See you soon, Mark.”

  And that was the end of the first family weekend at the new house.

  Monday afternoon Mark got home from his first day at the new school, and finally got to set off into the great outdoors. After bundling up under Anya’s watchful eye, he had gone out the back door of the garage and headed toward the woods that covered the steep slope to the south and east of the house. When he’d returned huffing and puffing fifteen minutes later, he was soaked up to his waist, with snow jammed up under his jacket, his face bright red.

  Leon was waiting for him in the garage. He pointed at a short stool. “Shake off the snow then sit and catch your breath. Just sit. Now you know that no one can plow through the deep snow. So I will teach you to go on top of it.”

  Leon slipped the toes of his boots into a pair of long snowshoes made of bentwood and rawhide strips. He buckled the straps on the bindings, stood up and said, “First, you watch.”

  Leon shuffled out the front of the garage. He took a few quick strides beyond the snow banks to the left of the driveway until he was walking where the snow was deep and unpacked. “See? A heavy man, but he only sinks a few inches.” He stopped to make sure Mark was watching. Mark was on his feet, all eyes.

  Moving again, Leon said, “Forward, always forward. Keep your legs apart, so, to keep the shoes from banging. And keep the tips up and the tails dragging, just so.”

  Leon came back into the garage. “Now your turn.” Bending down, he laced Mark into the bindings of a smaller pair of snowshoes. “These are Anya’s. I think too big for you. Still, you can learn.”

  And Mark did.

  After losing his balance once, and after letting the toes dig in and trip him a couple of times, Mark had gotten the feel of staying centered on the webbed platforms. With Leon behind him, Mark went back past the tracks he’d left as he had floundered through the four- and five-foot snowdrifts on the east side of the house. “Look!” he shouted. “It’s like I’m floating!”

  When his mom called that night to ask how his first day of school had been, Mark said, “Fine, but you know what? I learned how to snowshoe today! Leon taught me! Anya’s snowshoes are a little too big, but Leon said I did great!”

  His mom said, “That’s wonderful, dear. And school was all right? Were the teachers nice? And the children?”

  “School was fine, Mom. So, can I get my own snowshoes?”

  “Of course, sweetheart. If you can’t find what you want in Whitson or Atlinboro, you can shop online. I’ll tell Anya it’s all right when I speak with her. Get all the gear you need, dear.”

  And that’s why Mark and Leon had driven to Scottie’s Sporting Goods in Atlinboro Tuesday after school. The snowshoes Mark chose weren’t made of bent maple and twisted rawhide like Leon’s. These were high-tech, state-of-the-art snowshoes made of ballistic nylon stretched over tempered aluminum frames. Both of Mark’s snowshoes together weighed less than one of Anya’s.

  Mark’s first seven days were spent in the woods. From after school until dusk, he tramped uphill and down, from one end of the large property to the other. On moonlit nights, looking out his bedroom window across the meadows, it gave him a good feeling to see his own tracks, crisscrossing the bluish snow.

  If Mark’s first week was about the woods, then his second week was about the barn. He had walked all the way around the barn several times as he’d explored the property on his snowshoes. He had been curious, but there hadn’t seemed to be a way to get in. Deep snowdrifts blocked the doors on the lower level and also those on the end facing west. On the south side facing the pastures in front of the house, icicles had formed a glittering curtain, adding a thick glaze to the drifts that blocked that doorway. And on the end of the barn closest to the house, the huge double doors were snowed completely shut.

  Then on the Monday of his second week, Mark felt he just had to get inside the barn and look around. He asked Leon for help, and together they’d shoveled the drifts away from a smaller entrance to the right of the main doors. Once the snow was cleared, it was easy to enter because the little door swung inward.

  Mark had looked at Leon as the door creaked open. “Want to come see with me?”

  Leon smiled and shook his head. “I have work in the house.” Which wasn’t completely true. As a boy in Russia, Leon had explored plenty of old barns. This one was Mark’s.

  The door opened into a room that was about ten feet wide and twelve feet long.
Two small windows faced the house, each covered with spider webs, each loaded with last summer’s harvest of flies and moths. Below the windows there was a narrow workbench that would have been about waist high on a grown man. Nails driven into the wall around the windows served as hangers for a pair of pliers, a bent screwdriver, a hammer with black tape on its handle, and some small coils of wire. Some nails and screws and a few old hinges were scattered across the bench. Everything was rusty.

  On the wall opposite the bench was a row of twelve wooden pegs spaced about six inches apart, almost too high for Mark to reach. From one of them hung some long strips of leather—part of an old harness, dark and stiff from the sweat of plow horses. And looking at the leather strips, Mark had remembered what a room like this was called: a tack room. Three rusty horseshoes were stacked on another peg. Mark stood on his tiptoes to lift one of them off. It had a nice feel in his gloved hand, heavy and solid, and he slipped it into his coat pocket.

  But the best thing Mark had found on that first visit was in the corner of the room, next to the crude plank door that opened into the rest of the barn. At first he thought it was a broom handle or a piece of pipe. He picked it up and took it over to the windows for a better look.

  Someone had made a walking stick from a straight young tree. It was about an inch and a half thick at the top, and tapered perfectly to about half that width at the bottom. A narrow metal ring, maybe a thin piece of pipe, had been fitted onto the bottom end of the stick to keep it from splitting or wearing away on rocky ground. The top of the stick had been rounded over and carefully smoothed, and in the light Mark could see the whittled cuts left by a knife. Six inches below the top end, the silver-gray bark had been peeled away—just enough space for a hand to grasp hold—and a series of little ridges had been cut, ringing the stick. Mark had pulled the glove off his right hand to see how the grip felt. Just right.

  Opening the inner door, Mark stepped out onto the main floor of the barn, the end of the walking stick making a satisfying thump on the worn wooden floorboards. A row of small square windowpanes above the wide doors on either end of the barn let in some light, and Mark could see fine.