“Pay attention, Mr. Robinson.”
We were surrounded by picnic tables and waist-high brick-and-mortar grilling stations.
Ben sniffed the air. “Someone’s been cooking here.”
I smelled nothing. The young Webster led a scavenger hunt of the picnic area. From grill to table to grill we crept. And found, finally, deep within one of the sooty, forlorn pits, fragments of smoldering coal, the scattered remains of embers glowing orange beneath white ash, emitting faint smoky traces. Ben bent down over the grill and nosed at its carbon-encrusted iron crossbars, picked here and there with dirty fingers. He came up with some food, which he put in his mouth.
“Chicken,” he said, going down for more.
I rested at one of the tables. These park expeditions were so exhausting. Partly this was due to the tension that came naturally from trekking mapless through a woodland minefield — in my opinion, one absolutely cannot overestimate the effects of something like this, in terms of emotional stress. And there’s the purely physical fatigue accompanying so much careful walking, which for me involved a lot of involuntary tensing of the calf during step placement (tensing, actually, of the entire foot, leg, hip, back, shoulder, neck, and head areas — in other words, I guess, everywhere, though the calf muscles, and the Achilles tendons in particular, did seem to be the hot suns of that radiant, full-body cramping, aching, throbbing), and, as well, a lot of exaggeratedly high stepping, which burned boatloads of calories in an also involuntary effort to accomplish movement (of whatever kind, in whatever direction) safely above the terrifying surface of the moonlit earth.
Ben was now licking the surface of the grill. Wet sounds and the poor kid’s head bobbing over the charred metal. It was hard to watch.
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“Sure, fine, great,” he said between licks. I took this as pretty clear indication of the alienating effects of malnutrition and exposure to the elements. Obviously Ben was delusional. Still, I had to hand it to him, he was making do, he wasn’t complaining, he was a survivor. He stood upright and wiped his mouth with the greasy back of his hand, adjusted his clothes and said, “There’s something up ahead I want to show you, Mr. Robinson.”
“Lead the way,” I told him, though it was getting late and I very much wanted to go home. I was feeling peckish myself. It was well past the dinner hour. I wanted to get home and let Meredith fix me a nice hot meal. A plate of those fish sticks, maybe, from the bottom of the freezer.
Instead of going home for dinner — the sensible thing to do, what with school scheduled to commence in less than twelve hours, and had I even begun to prepare for classes? — instead of heading on home while the night was still young, I followed Ben out of the deserted picnic grounds, up a barren hillside crowned with a ghostly playground full of weed-choked, run-down jungle gyms, swing sets, seesaws, and slides; then past the playground, down the other side of the hill, and onto the rocky path leading to the Japanese garden, at one time one of the finer attractions of Turtle Pond Park. Yes, the Japanese garden was quite the showplace. With its pebble walkways the color of sand, its trickling, carp-ridden brook running between carefully placed, semiprivate “freeform sculpture” seating areas, its exotic imported shrubs waving waxy leaves and tiny pastel blooms that perfumed the air, the Japanese garden made an ideal setting for leisure meditation or a sunny afternoon siesta. And of course it had been, at one time, a favorite meeting place for lovers.
Ben pushed open the garden’s rickety bamboo gates. He made a courteous “after you” hand gesture. He said, “This is the place where my father died.”
He walked into the garden. Gravel crunched under his feet. A few yards beyond the gateway was a bench, one of those elegant, narrow stone benches, and beside the bench a tree that appeared to be a diminutive variety of cherry. All the trees in this garden had botanical markers driven into the ground beside them, featuring common and taxonomic names, indigenous regions, roles in agronomy, medicinal uses, and so forth. This one wore short branches with delicate, lacy leaves. Ben stood beneath the leaves. He was turned away from me. Shadows and moonlight dappled him. He whispered, “It was night. It was after a rain. Dad was lying on this bench. His clothes were wet. I said, Dad. He didn’t answer.”
He stared down at the bench. He was remembering, envisioning his father’s body. I, too, considered that empty bench, its fine gray contours, those graceful rhomboid legs. The seat looked soft, like a cot. It seemed like a comfortable place to rest. Its polished surface captured night’s silver incandescence; the whole bench seemed to glow.
Ben’s voice cracked. “Dad’s eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sleeping.”
He was sobbing. Soft muffled whimpers rising from a deep place. I told him, “It’s okay, man.” Little by little his crying grew louder. Then we were both crying, and the world beyond the borders of the park seemed far away. I said, “Ben, I’m so sorry.” And realized, saying it, that I did in fact feel, in a vague, hard-to-pinpoint way, responsible. But for what? Ben’s father’s death? That was absurd. Or was it? Perhaps I had been wrong, the week previous, perhaps I had been wrong to bury Jim Kunkel’s foot. What good was a foot? Stronger medicine was needed to cleanse this tainted grove. The heart! If only I’d buried the heart.
“It’s my fault, Mr. Robinson. I let Dad out of my sight. We promised to look after each other. We promised. We promised.” He was wailing, a bottomless wailing the likes of which is seldom heard. It was thrilling to be in the company of that sound. I raised the tail of my shirt and blew my nose as Ben wept, “While there’s a Benson left alive I won’t leave this park. That was my vow to Dad.”
He rested his hand on his gun. His fingers caressed the butt of the holstered weapon.
“Violence won’t solve anything, Ben.”
“Bullshit, Mr. Robinson.”
I didn’t bother to argue. How could I? In classroom lectures on the medieval Inquisition I’d made the point over and over again that we are all, each and every one of us, heirs to a legacy of blood and grief. Ben’s commitment to kill his father’s killers was nothing less than testament to this inheritance. Ben Webster had once been one of my favorite pupils. Now he stood before me, lean and stripped down to fighting weight.
“Ben, my home school is scheduled to start tomorrow morning. How would you feel about guest-teaching an elective course in wilderness survival?”
“Me?”
“Think about it. I’m sure it would mean a lot to the kids. You could even lead a field trip here in the park, if you wanted.”
His sobbing was diminishing now, becoming gradually quieter. Apparently the teaching gig intrigued him. I said to him, and truly meant this, “Ben, take it from me, you’ll be a natural.”
Then, to make him feel better, I told him, “You know, Ben, certain ancient cultures believed that the souls of the dead rise up and inhabit a tree. The Christian myth of the resurrection is a sophisticated monotheistic variation on this. Now take this cherry tree here by the bench. Some people — and who is to doubt another’s faith, right? — some people would say that maybe, just maybe, your father is in that tree.”
“In the tree?”
“Yes, in the tree.” I went over and placed my hand on a level, shoulder-high bough. I patted the bough and smiled good-naturedly, “Chuck, if you’re in there, I just want you to know that an awful lot of people care an awful lot about you, especially your son.”