In The Forest Of Harm by Sallie Bissell Page A

of paper that marked peoples’ passage up here—photos of hunters with trophy bears, notes advertising Plott hounds for sale, handwritten messages from one hiker to another. Mary walked over beside her.
    Joan was looking at some photographs. They resembled Wanted posters, except the photos were not the mug shots of criminals, but people who had disappeared into the forest and never returned. They were pictures desperate relatives had ripped from family albums—one girl’s high school graduation photo, another a gap-toothed little boy in an old Milwaukee Braves baseball cap grinning over a string of fish. Mary had seen the yellowed images so many times she felt like the missing people were old friends. Alice Andrews, nineteen, disappeared October 1, 1976, when she wandered away from a camp-out with friends. A year later Jimmy Reynolds, eight years old, let go of his father’s hand on Butler’s Bald for just a minute and was never seen again. Most people who got lost up here were found. Those two, though, had vanished. When she’d lived here they had haunted her, seeming to call to her through the trees every time she walked home alone.
    Joan took off her sunglasses. “This is serious forest, isn’t it?”
    Mary shrugged. “Occasionally people don’t make it out. Mostly, though, they do.” She smiled at Joan. “We certainly will.”
    They walked back to the front of the store, where Alex had dumped six candy bars on the counter.
    â€œYou must not be into counting fat grams.” Jonathan punched the keys on the ancient wooden cash register.
    â€œNot today.” Alex handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Me and my fat grams took separate vacations.”
    â€œHey, life is short.” He grinned, flicking open a brown paper bag. “And there’s but a finite number of PayDays.”
    Joan reappeared with three packs of Virginia Slims and a bag of red licorice whips. She held up the latter. “I heard these were good to eat on the trail.”
    â€œOnly if you like them in real life,” said Mary.
    â€œOh.” Joan fingered the candy, then put it back on the shelf. “Well, just give me the smokes then.”
    â€œYou might try these instead.” Jonathan grabbed a handful of Power Bars and shoved them in the sack with the cigarettes. “On the house.”
    He rang up the sale. “I understand you ladies are going primitive,” he said as he gave Joan her change. “If you’d like one last shot at a flush toilet, you’re welcome to use my facilities.”
    â€œWow, that would be great,” said Joan.
    â€œRight over there.” He pointed to a doorway beside an old ice-cream cooler that now chilled grubs and night crawlers.
    Alex and Joan headed for the bathroom.
    â€œWould you like to walk out on the porch?” Jonathan asked Mary when the door had closed behind them.
    She looked at the sun, streaming in the windows. It would be like old times—Jonathan, close to her in the warm October light. She smiled, but shook her head. “Thanks, but I’d like to look around in here a minute.”
    â€œSure.” His smile faded, and she knew that he, too, was thinking of that long-ago afternoon. “I understand.”
    A sandy-haired man dressed in jeans entered the store, asking Jonathan about good spots to find trout. While they talked, Mary looked around. Little Jump Off was the same place it had been twelve years ago—still welcoming the mountain traveler with a little of everything and not much of anything. Although Jonathan now had a TV and a computer behind the counter, she knew if she stepped outside the back door, she would find an old well and a hog-killing trough and, further on, a cool, dark, hickory-scented shack where last fall’s bear hams hung curing for Christmas. Further beyond that was the spot where she had said good-bye to him that awful afternoon. Involuntarily, she closed