David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

He tipped the coffee can to his mouth and then climbed down, his body oily with sweat. He dragged away the bales Claude had moved. The wood plank was splintered where the nails had been pulled. He pressed the point of Henry’s jackknife into the crack and pried it up. He didn’t know what he expected to find. The hole was dry and empty, like the one he’d found the night before, though deeper. It could easily accommodate the bottle Claude had set aside-the bottle that had not been a figment of his imagination. Or of Ida Paine’s.

It existed. He’d seen it, in daylight, if only for a moment.

He walked to the front wall and cracked open the mow door and pressed one eye to the gap, blinking against the midday brilliance. Fresh air poured across his face, hot from the August sun but soothingly cool after what he’d endured in the rafters. The mow door was hinged on the side nearest the house and he could see only downfield, where grasshoppers leapt like firecrackers ignited under the rays of the run.

Then Claude’s footsteps sounded on the gravel. The truck started, idled alongside the barn, and stopped again. Edgar’s mother called the pups. She would not keep them out for long in the heat, he thought. He listened for a moment, then shut the mow door and walked to the top of the stairs.

WHEN TRUDY REACHED THE SHADE OF THE BARN, SHE TURNED and knelt and recalled the pups, then coaxed them down the long concrete aisle. They were too old to be sleeping in the whelping pens, but keeping four-month-olds there during the heat of August wasn’t all bad. Pups that age still had a hard time regulating their body temperature, and didn’t always have the sense to get out of the sun. The whelping rooms, sealed from the outside, were often the coolest part of the kennel.

She was latching their pen door when she felt his arms around her. She let out a brief pip of a cry before a hand clamped over her mouth and another was thrust in front of her face, fingerspelling like lightning.

Quiet. Only sign. Okay?

She nodded. He let go and stepped back and she turned to look at Edgar.

He stood holding a finger to his lips. His cheekbones jutted from his face and the line of his jaw swept so sharply toward his throat that he seemed to be made all of sinew and bone. His hair lay matted and sun-browned across his forehead and his ragged clothes reeked as though he’d spent days in the barn. But his eyes were startlingly, almost preternaturally, clear, looking steadily at her from a face lined by tracks of sweat cut through dirt. The sight of him raced ahead of her thoughts, condensing only afterward into distinct, namable feelings, as if her mind were accommodating too slowly the flash of a bright light: overwhelming relief, knowing her son was safe; fury, for his punishingly long absence; bewilderment at his appearance, which spoke of a long, harrowing journey. Before she could distill any of those thoughts into words, he was looking past her, through the whelping room door and into the main kennel.

Where’s Claude? he signed.

He’s changing the oil in the truck. Where have you been? Are you okay?

He reached over and pulled the door closed.

I wasn’t going to come back. I almost didn’t.

But why? I signaled for you the very next morning. I told them you ran because you were upset after what happened to your father.

They were looking for me.

Of course they were. You were a runaway. But it’s all right now. I told them it was an accident. She paused and corrected herself. It was an accident.

Did you find my note?

What note?

You were gone when I got here last night. I left a note on the table.

There was no note.

Claude found it, then.

She had to think for a minute about what that meant.

I need you to do something, he signed.

Just come to the house. Don’t go away again.

If you do this, I promise to stay. But I need one night out here, alone. After dark I need you to keep Claude in the house, no matter what.

Why?

Because he’s hiding something here.

Claude?

Yes.

What would he hide?

He stared at her, as though trying to divine something.

What? What is it?

Have you seen him?

Claude?

No. In the rain. Have you seen him?

She blinked. She didn’t know what Edgar was talking about. She shook her head. All this time she had imagined him coming back and everything being okay, but instead Almondine was gone and here was Edgar and he was obviously not okay. Not okay at all. He was starved and crazed.

Just come to the house.

I don’t want him to know I was here.

You said he already knows.

Yes, but he doesn’t know I was out here. Not in the barn.

Okay.

Don’t cry. Take a breath.

Okay.

You can’t tell him. If you tell him, I’ll go away again. I swear it. I’ll never come back. You’ll never see me again.

She shook her head and signed, No, no.

You know I’ll do it.

Yes.

You’ll make sure he stays in the house after dark?

I could say I wanted a night away. We could go into town.

No. Keep him in the house.

What if I can’t?

You have to. Turn the porch light on if you can’t. Turn it on if I should stay away.

All right.

When this is done I’ll come back for good, I promise.

Okay.

Then there was the slam of the truck door and Claude’s footsteps along the kennel aisle. Edgar stepped into the nearest whelping pen and pressed up against the wall. The pups began to yip and leap.

“Everything good in there?” Claude called.

“You bet,” Trudy said, taking a breath and trying to sound breezy. “Just teaching these wild things to sit for a brushing.”

“Need a hand?”

“Nope. I’ll shout if I do.”

“Okay. Done with the truck in twenty minutes,” he said. She heard Claude fetch something from the workshop and walk outside.

Edgar slipped out of the whelping pen.

I’ll be back after dark, he signed. Remember, if the porch light is on, I’ll stay away until tomorrow.

Edgar. There’s something I need to tell you. Something bad.

He looked back at her.

I know. I was by the birches last night.

I’m so sorry, Edgar.

He shook his head and wiped his eyes roughly and pushed past her and looked down the barn aisle.

I put Essay in with Pout and Finch.

What?

She’s in the run with Pout and Finch. Claude must have found her this morning when he fed them.

No. He would have told me.

He’s hoping I’ll leave again.

Before she had a chance to ask Edgar anything else, he slipped past and trotted out the rear doors. Trudy followed and stood at the threshold and watched him cut across the field and disappear into the thicket without breaking his stride. When she came back in, she stopped at one of the runs and rapped on the wood frame of the door. Finch and Pout pushed through the passageway from outside. A moment later, Essay joined them. The dogs had been watching Edgar leave as well.

WHEN HE REACHED THE CREEK, HE PEELED OFF HIS SHIRT and submerged it in the cool shallows and wiped the sweat and chaff from his skin. It was hot, very hot, and the air was sticky-wet and he stood waiting while the beads of water evaporated. Then he walked to the vast dying oak at the far corner of their land, hoping to find Forte there. The tree stood black and vacant of leaves on all but a few high limbs. The moment he settled himself against its gnarled roots, he understood why the place had once appealed to the stray: from where he sat, Edgar had a clear view down the trail both ways. Neither the creek nor the road was visible, but a person approaching from either direction would be, and the trunk of the oak was broad enough to hide behind. But he didn’t think he’d have to worry about that. Claude would have no reason to look for him in that spot over any other. He had never been along when Edgar and his father walked the fence line and he knew nothing of the tree’s significance.