The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. David Wroblewski

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      “Far enough. Whoa. Whoa there.”

      “Okay, a little more. Stop. Little more. Stop. Good.”

      Edgar flipped the toggle to kill the engine and hopped down. Claude reached into the wagon and pulled out the chainsaw and the red gasoline can. They began to work their way through the pile. The work was monotonous but pleasant. Edgar heaved a log out and Claude sawed off a fireplace-size chunk and Edgar heaved the log again. Sawdust sweetened the air. Edgar daydreamed and looked around and wondered if Schultz had ever cut wood in that part of the forest, and what part of the house or barn might be built from it. Whenever the cut wood piled up, Claude stood with the saw idling while Edgar and his father tossed the chunks into the wagon.

      Halfway through the first pile, light rain began to fall, hardly more than a tickle on the back of their necks. When it didn’t let up, his father shouted to Claude. Claude glanced over, then returned to cutting while Edgar advanced the log. When he stopped again, the air was filled with a fine, cool mist cut by drops of condensation falling from the skyward branches.

      “Let’s load and head back,” Edgar’s father said. He began to loft cut pieces into the wagon, making it rattle and boom. Edgar and Claude joined him, but when they had finished, Claude looked up through the treetops and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve.

      “It’s letting up,” he said. “We don’t need to stop.”

      And all at once, the lightheartedness that had made them joke and wave at the woodchucks vanished. His father’s jaw was set. When he spoke next, it was as though some argument had already taken place, with positions staked out and a deadlock reached, all in some sphere invisible to Edgar. “This wood is wet and slippery,” his father said. “So is that saw. We can come back tomorrow when it’s dry and we won’t have to worry about anybody getting hurt.”

      For a moment the three of them gazed at the stacked cordwood, shiny with moisture. Claude shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said and he braced the chainsaw against a log and yanked the rope starter. The engine sputtered for a moment and caught.

      His father shouted something at Claude, who mouthed, “What?” and revved the chainsaw until it was impossible to hear his father’s reply. Then he shouted, “What?” again. When his father took the bait, Claude squeezed the throttle until the chainsaw howled in his hands. His father paled with anger. A grin spread across Claude’s face and he turned and dropped the chain bar into a log and a wake of wet wood chips sprayed onto the ground.

      His father stalked over to Edgar and cupped his mouth by his ear.

      “Get up on the tractor.”

      Edgar clambered into the tractor seat and flipped the ignition switch up. His father cranked the starter, swung up onto the driver’s side of the seat, gunned the engine, and they bounced their way out of the woods, logs rattling and flying off the back of the wagon. At the house, they stacked the wood in the inside corner by the porch while the whine of the chainsaw pierced the drizzle, reduced by distance to an insect sound. When they finished, Edgar parked Alice beside the barn. Almondine greeted him at the door and chaperoned him up the stairs. He listened to his mother and father talk while he changed out of his wet clothes.

      “So what if he wants to cut wood in the rain,” she said. “Let him.”

      “And if he drives the chainsaw into his leg, what then? And if the saw rusts up over the winter from getting wet?”

      “Gar, you’re right. But you can’t ride him like that. He’s a grown man.”

      “That’s just it. He’s not a grown man. He’s got no more sense than he had twenty years ago! He gets things into his head, and whatever I say, he’ll do the opposite.”

      “He’s a grown man,” his mother repeated. “You can’t make decisions for him. You couldn’t back then and you can’t now.”

      Footsteps, and the click of the coffee pot lid. When Edgar and Almondine walked into the kitchen, Edgar’s mother was standing behind his father with her arms crossed around his neck. His father sipped his coffee and handed the cup up to his mother and looked out the window toward the woods.

      “You didn’t see him down there, gunning the saw whenever I tried to explain to him. It was childish,” he said. “It was dangerous.”

      Edgar’s mother didn’t respond. She rubbed his father’s shoulders and said they needed some things from the store. By the time they returned, Claude had carried everything up from the woods, cleaned and oiled the saw, and lay asleep in his room.

      A WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING, Claude took the truck into town. When he returned, late that night, even the cold gust of wind that followed him inside couldn’t disguise the smell of cigarette smoke and beer. He dumped a bag of groceries on the table and looked at Edgar’s father.

      “Oh dear, His Eminence is much displeased.” He trudged drunkenly into the living room, then turned back. “Look on his works, ye mighty, and despair!” he cried in a booming voice, arms outswept, bowing until he nearly tipped over.

      When the days were warm, Edgar stayed away from the house, scouring the woods with Almondine for puffball mushrooms and arrowheads. Looking as well for signs of Forte, who hadn’t appeared since late September. One day they would find his bones, he thought, sadly. They walked to the whale-rock and sat at the edge of the peninsula of woods and watched smoke curl out of the chimney. Almondine fell into a half-sleep. Brown leaves drifted down from the trees and her pelt twitched when they landed on her. After dinner, he snuck out to practice stays with Tinder, who wanted more than anything to jump up and run.

      He bolted the barn doors from the inside and let the pups run loose up and down the kennel aisle while he sat on a straw bale. Baboo sat with him. Essay started looking for trouble at once. They rolled on their backs and paw-boxed at Almondine, who examined and dismissed them. He fetched half a dozen tennis balls from the workshop and threw them against the doors until the aisle was a mass of surging, raucous animals, and when they tired, he led them into the mow and read to them, signing under the yellow nova of the bulbs in the rafters.

      EDGAR FIRST HEARD OF Starchild Colony that fall, and of Alexandra Honeywell, whose long, straight hair was indeed the color of honey. The television news carried the stories of the commune, located on the Canadian side of Lake Superior, near Thunder Bay. Reporters stood beside Alexandra Honeywell on the outskirts of a woody glade, a house framed out behind them, the autumn leaves brilliant yellow. Sometimes she answered the reporter’s question directly, and other times she looked into the television and exhorted people to come and help. “This is a place for peace! Come to Starchild! We need people with skills; people who want to work! We don’t care if you are a student, a musician, or a soldier. Leave it behind! We need strong hands and brave hearts!”

      Alexandra Honeywell was beautiful. Edgar knew this was why she showed up on television so often. If he was in his room and overheard a news teaser about Starchild, he’d come downstairs and sit in the living room and gaze at her while his parents exchanged glances. Claude let out a low whistle at the sight of her.

      THANKSGIVING CAME AND PASSED. Edgar woke one night to a sound like a gunshot, though even as he threw off his blankets he understood it was the porch door slamming back against the house. Almondine scrambled up from her place by the door and together they looked out the window. The porch light was shining. The ground was thinly covered in snow and the wind blew hoary gray flakes across the glass. At the base of the porch steps, he saw his father and СКАЧАТЬ