almost hear it slamming shut. The smile vanished from Frank’s face. A half-finished barnacle drooped from his fingers.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said. His voice was so cold that it scared me. “I’m glad he’s dead, and that’s all.”
Frank stood up. He dropped the barnacle into the bucket and went out to the forest. With nothing else to do, I cleaned up the cabin. I folded the plastic sheets and pushed them under the bed. I set up the table, sorted the firewood, placed the stones in a circle again. When Frank came back I was down on my hands and knees with the red wire still around my neck, trying to find the pieces from the radio. He stepped right over me and threw himself down on the bed.
The silence felt awful. I didn’t want to be the first to speak, but I imagined us both being so stubborn that we never talked again. A picture came to my mind of the two of us ancient and bearded, just sitting and staring at each other. It made me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” said Frank.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Then why did you laugh, moron? You laughing at
me
?”
“No,” I said. It seemed strange that he cared about that. I didn’t think people like Frank even imagined that people might be laughing at them.
I couldn’t find the knob for the radio. So I took the paperback book,
Kaetil the Raven Hunter,
and sat in the chair to read it. The pages were yellow, all bent and smudged. The book must have been read a hundred times. It opened right at the beginning, as though the cabin guy had trained it.
I started reading. But right away, Frank interrupted. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“What does it look like?” I said. “I’m reading a book.”
“Can’t you do something useful?”
I had heard the same words a thousand times from my father. Just as he might have done, Frank got up and slapped the book from my hands. “Come on,” he said. “You can hunt for treasure.”
I’d heard that too. With that same promise of treasure, I would have gone with my father to English Bay. Now I followed Frank through the forest, along a trail that took us north to a stream of cold water. It burbled down tiny waterfalls into a pool as round as a barrel. Frank dropped to the ground and dunked his face right into the water. We had not had a drink since the day before. But I still drank like a timid animal, lifting water in my hands as I kept a watch on the forest.
Though the water was so cold that it hurt my teeth, Frank washed his face and his precious hair, splashing silvery drops in the sun. As I gazed all around, I saw a red-handled jackknife lying near the trunk of a tree. I ran to get it, my fear suddenly forgotten. “A knife!” I shouted.
“Let me see,” said Frank.
The blade was open and stained with streaks of brown. “It’s kind of rusty,” I said.
“Come on, let’s see!” Frank stood up and held out his hand. I knew that if I didn’t give him the knife right then I’d be wrestling him for it a moment later. So I passed it over, to save some time and pain.
Frank tossed it in his palm. He closed the blade and opened it again, then held it near his eyes.
“I don’t think that’s rust,” he said.
He dipped the knife into the pool and cleaned the blade with his fingers. Little swirls of red drifted away. To me, it seemed creepy: first an empty cabin, now a bloodstained knife. But Frank had a simple answer.
“This is where the cabin guy would have cleaned his fish and stuff. Maybe rabbits,” he said. “It’s lucky he dropped the knife.”
I watched Frank flick the blade open and shut. “Okay, give it back now,” I said.
“It’s not yours,” said Frank. “It’s the cabin guy’s.”
“Yeah, well, if he comes back, I’ll give it to him.” I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Give it back.”
Frank tossed his wet hair. Then he smiled and held out the knife—until I reached out to take it. Then he snatched it away, slipped it into his pocket and
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said. His voice was so cold that it scared me. “I’m glad he’s dead, and that’s all.”
Frank stood up. He dropped the barnacle into the bucket and went out to the forest. With nothing else to do, I cleaned up the cabin. I folded the plastic sheets and pushed them under the bed. I set up the table, sorted the firewood, placed the stones in a circle again. When Frank came back I was down on my hands and knees with the red wire still around my neck, trying to find the pieces from the radio. He stepped right over me and threw himself down on the bed.
The silence felt awful. I didn’t want to be the first to speak, but I imagined us both being so stubborn that we never talked again. A picture came to my mind of the two of us ancient and bearded, just sitting and staring at each other. It made me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” said Frank.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Then why did you laugh, moron? You laughing at
me
?”
“No,” I said. It seemed strange that he cared about that. I didn’t think people like Frank even imagined that people might be laughing at them.
I couldn’t find the knob for the radio. So I took the paperback book,
Kaetil the Raven Hunter,
and sat in the chair to read it. The pages were yellow, all bent and smudged. The book must have been read a hundred times. It opened right at the beginning, as though the cabin guy had trained it.
I started reading. But right away, Frank interrupted. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“What does it look like?” I said. “I’m reading a book.”
“Can’t you do something useful?”
I had heard the same words a thousand times from my father. Just as he might have done, Frank got up and slapped the book from my hands. “Come on,” he said. “You can hunt for treasure.”
I’d heard that too. With that same promise of treasure, I would have gone with my father to English Bay. Now I followed Frank through the forest, along a trail that took us north to a stream of cold water. It burbled down tiny waterfalls into a pool as round as a barrel. Frank dropped to the ground and dunked his face right into the water. We had not had a drink since the day before. But I still drank like a timid animal, lifting water in my hands as I kept a watch on the forest.
Though the water was so cold that it hurt my teeth, Frank washed his face and his precious hair, splashing silvery drops in the sun. As I gazed all around, I saw a red-handled jackknife lying near the trunk of a tree. I ran to get it, my fear suddenly forgotten. “A knife!” I shouted.
“Let me see,” said Frank.
The blade was open and stained with streaks of brown. “It’s kind of rusty,” I said.
“Come on, let’s see!” Frank stood up and held out his hand. I knew that if I didn’t give him the knife right then I’d be wrestling him for it a moment later. So I passed it over, to save some time and pain.
Frank tossed it in his palm. He closed the blade and opened it again, then held it near his eyes.
“I don’t think that’s rust,” he said.
He dipped the knife into the pool and cleaned the blade with his fingers. Little swirls of red drifted away. To me, it seemed creepy: first an empty cabin, now a bloodstained knife. But Frank had a simple answer.
“This is where the cabin guy would have cleaned his fish and stuff. Maybe rabbits,” he said. “It’s lucky he dropped the knife.”
I watched Frank flick the blade open and shut. “Okay, give it back now,” I said.
“It’s not yours,” said Frank. “It’s the cabin guy’s.”
“Yeah, well, if he comes back, I’ll give it to him.” I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Give it back.”
Frank tossed his wet hair. Then he smiled and held out the knife—until I reached out to take it. Then he snatched it away, slipped it into his pocket and
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