Ava's Gift

But Tom remained there at her door, waiting, with an echo of Wash’s face hidden in the architecture of his own.

It took a little more time and arguing but, in the end, Brenda conceded to letting Wash and Tom spend the afternoon alone together, just so long as they didn’t stray too far from the house and so long as they didn’t take Tom’s car. “No farther than you can limp off,” Brenda had said to the pair. “Doctors say he’s okay, but I’m not convinced. And the last thing I need is for him to have an episode and for me not to be there.” When Tom asked what she was afraid might happen to the boy, Brenda would only reply, “If a person could predict the unexpected, it wouldn’t be the unexpected, now would it?”

“I suppose not,” Tom said.

“And don’t be gone long,” Brenda added before they left. “He’s got somewhere to be.”

She stood out back near the dog kennels and watched with disapproval as Wash and Tom made their way up into the mountain. There was a faint path that had been worn into the mountain over the years and the man and boy marched single file through the tall grass. Tom walked in front as Wash trailed behind, and before they reached the ridgeline, where they would disappear from sight, Wash looked back over his shoulder to see if his grandmother was still watching. She was. She stood like a lighthouse, tall and stoic and full of warning as, behind her, the dogs barked and pawed at their kennels, waiting to be fed.

Then Wash and his father reached the top of the mountain and Brenda disappeared.

“Pretty day,” Tom said, turning his eyes upward and breaking the silence between them. The sky was blue. The sun was bright.

“Yes, sir,” Wash said.

“I hate to say this,” Tom said, “but I’m not totally sure what to do now. I’d hoped to take you to a movie or something. Or, at the very least, to grab a bite to eat somewhere.” He huffed. “But, well, your grandmother...she’s...”

“Protective,” Wash said.

“Yeah,” Tom replied. “That’s the word I was looking for.” He turned and looked back at Wash. “So now I guess we just go for a walk through the woods.”

“That’s fine,” Wash said.

They marched in silence for a few minutes.

“Do you still sing?” Wash asked. He could scarcely remember a thing about the man, but his memory was full of his father singing. There was a collection of moments that clouded his head, moments in which his father was holding a banjo or guitar in his hands, his face contorted awkwardly as the passion of the song overtook him. In those brief years when Tom was a part of Wash’s life, the man always filled the air with the tinny sound of bluegrass and folk songs. And when he went from Wash’s life, the music stayed.

“I’ve been learning a lot of murder ballads,” Wash continued. “Ava says they’re morbid, but she actually likes them.”

“You’re singing now?” Tom asked.

“I try,” Wash replied. “But my voice...well, I don’t think I’m any good.”

“Stop singing,” Tom said sharply. “Just let it go. It won’t get you anywhere. If you ask me, you should give up music altogether.” Tom’s steps seemed to fall more heavily, as though he were treading upon his own regrets. Then he asked, “You do any camping?”

“A little bit,” Wash replied. The sun was growing warmer and he was beginning to sweat. “Ava and I have camped up here a few times.”

“You spend a lot of time with her, don’t you?”

“I suppose,” Wash said.

“You like her?”

“I guess so.”

“No,” Tom said, smiling. “I mean, do you like her. You’re too old to pretend you don’t know what I mean when I ask that kind of a question.”

Wash didn’t answer.

“You a virgin?” Tom asked.

“I’m thirteen.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Tom said. “You wouldn’t be the first thirteen-year-old to have sex, and you wouldn’t be the last. I’m not accusing you of anything, I’m just asking.”

Wash looked down at the ground and marched forward behind his father. “I’m thirteen,” he repeated.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tom said. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you. Okay? This is the kind of stuff boys are supposed to be able to talk to their dads about. My dad and I, we didn’t really talk much. But that doesn’t mean that’s how it’s got to be between you and me.” Tom scratched the top of his head and sighed. “Did she really do what they said?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. “Did she really heal you? I mean, really and truly. It’s not just some scam, some hoax or something?” When his son did not reply to his questions, Tom scratched the top of his head again. “Wish I had a beer,” he said nervously. “I’m a little out of practice with all this. I’m not sure if I’m doing anything right.”

They walked for a little while longer and eventually came to a clearing beneath the shade of a large patch of pine trees. Tom paced in a circle, as though looking for something. “How are you at making a fire?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Wash said. He sat on the ground and folded his legs. He was more tired than he expected and the coolness of the shade from the pine trees felt good against his skin. “I should have worn sunblock,” he said.

Tom laughed. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “So, can you start a fire?”

“With matches.”

“No,” Tom said. “I mean, can you start a fire from scratch? Without matches or a lighter.”

Wash thought for a moment. “Probably,” he said. “I’ve read books that tell you how to do it. Do you like Jack London?”

“I’ve heard of him,” Tom replied. He was on his knees in the edges of the tall grass surrounding the clearing. He picked up dried pine needles and some dried pieces of wood. “That’s what we’ll do,” Tom said as if finishing a thought. He rose to his feet and came to the center of the clearing and placed the pine needles and wood into a pile. Tom walked around the clearing, kicking rocks, examining them as he did. “The good thing about being up here is that it’s never really too difficult to find what you need to start a fire,” he said. “That won’t be the case everywhere, of course. I’ve started fires in places where there probably should have never been a fire.” He kicked more stones, and there was a slight bit of frustration in his movements. “I really don’t want to have to do this with a pair of sticks,” he said, a hint of laughter at the end of his sentence. “Takes forever and, while I won’t say it’s not worth the effort—because if you ever get into a situation where you really need a fire, any amount of effort is worth it—today’s just one of those days where I don’t really think it’ll give us what we’re looking for. You know?”

“Yes, sir,” Wash replied.

“Aha!” Tom shouted, squatting into a pile of brush. “Here’s what the doctor ordered.” He stood holding a pair of small rocks. He brushed the dirt from them. “Yes,” he said, “these will work just fine.” He came back into the center of the clearing and kneeled and began stacking the bits of wood and grass together. He stretched out on his belly. “It’s difficult,” Tom said. “More difficult than people ever really understand. Everybody thinks that, if they had to, they could start a fire. But the truth of it is that there are few people who could really do it. Not many folks understand the amount of nurturing and care it takes. Every moment it’s on the verge of dying on you. Every single moment.”

“Yes, sir,” Wash said. He found a stick and traced absentminded patterns back and forth in the dirt.

When Tom had arranged the pine needles and grass in a satisfactory pile he held up the two rocks for Wash. “Come here,” he said. “Come and look at what I’ve done.”

Reluctantly, Wash went over and kneeled across from his father.

“The key is to think upward,” Tom said. “The fire has to start at the bottom so you put your thinnest, driest stuff at the bottom.” He struck the two rocks together. A small spark danced in the air, and then disappeared. “If the wind is high,” Tom continued, “you’ve got to be sure that you’re out of it. Block it with something, or pick a better place. You wouldn’t try to start a fire like this out here in the open if it were windy. Wouldn’t ever work.”

“You can also use glasses,” Wash said.

“What’s that?” Tom answered, striking the stones together, his attention focused squarely on the dry grass at the bottom of the pile.

“If you wear glasses, and if they’re thick enough, you can use them to focus the sunlight,” Wash said, an ember of excitement in his voice. “It’ll focus the sunlight enough so that it heats it, just like a magnifying glass, and that’ll start the fire.”

“That sounds like something you read in a book somewhere,” Tom said. “I don’t know which one, but I guess it’s true enough. Just be careful of believing what you read in books. Books are okay enough, I suppose, but too many people forget that there’s a real world out there and that they can touch it, feel it, smell it.” He continued striking the stones together and, slowly, a small thread of smoke began to rise from the pile of brush. “There it is,” he said. He began blowing gently into the base of the fire. “There we go,” he whispered.

But Wash did not see. He looked off into the distance and thought of all the books he had read, all the places he had visited in his mind, all the stories that swirled around inside of him each and every day, like an ocean he had been building up inside himself over the years, page by page, word by word. The ocean was vast and limitless, filled with joy and sadness, terror and betrayal, the deaths of friends and the final fate of enemies. And it was at this moment, as his father lay on the ground, making a fire, as he kneeled across from him, watching the man huff and puff gently into the growing fire, not looking up, not looking around at the world, but only looking into the fire, into the immediate obstacle before him, this was when Wash understood both who his father was and who his father was not.

“There we go,” Tom said, smiling. The small thread of smoke had grown into a long, silver chain rising up out of the air. Tom took more small pine needles and placed them on the growing flame. The fire sizzled and the flame leaped up. “Now we’re making something happen,” he said. “Now we’re building a future.”

For the rest of the day Wash did not ask his father about singing or about books. He gave up talk of folk songs and he did not make any more references of characters he’d read about or scenes he had enjoyed. He only listened as his father talked about fire and all the different ways to build and maintain it. He answered “Yes, sir,” at the proper intervals. He smiled when he felt it was what is father wanted. He spent the afternoon watching the dream of who he thought his father would be if he ever came back to him die, piece by piece, in the firelight.