My Abandonment(5)

"How about that?" he says. "Now we just have to remember where they are, since they're so hard to see."

Father can whistle in ways that fools birds. One finger, two fingers, no fingers. Breathing in or blowing out. Loud or soft.

"I could make a snare," he says. "I could catch a squirrel or rabbit, if we ate meat."

"Could you catch them without hurting them?" I say.

"Probably," he says. "Maybe."

"Why don't you?" I say. "Not for pets, but just to look at them up close. For homework."

There's crying in the air and we stop and watch a bunch of black crows chasing an eagle around in the sky until they slide too far out to the left and we can't see them anymore. We start walking again.

"I could easily do that," Father says, "if I wanted to. I could even make a snare that would catch a person."

"A person?" I say.

"He'd have no idea," Father says. "Until it was too late. Jerk him straight upside down, swinging by his heels."





I am a person who likes to be alone since I am never alone, exactly. It is important that we have time in solitude, Father says, and before he wanted to keep me in sight when he was working on something or at least make an agreement on how far I could go but now that I'm older I am allowed to range, except not leave the forest park's boundaries, and I am to stay off the roads and main trails. I have to hear or see anyone before they can see or hear me, and hide out of the way. We call this alone time, when we go out by ourselves.

I like to go barefoot. It is almost impossible to climb a tree wearing shoes. I cannot go barefoot in the city since it is dangerous and does not look right so it draws attention. In the woods it is fine. It is also fine to sing in the woods but there is no reason to sing loudly. If you can hear yourself, that is enough. If you had a friend you could walk close together and sing softly. With my fingernail I scratch words into some of the leaves around. Hello friend, I scratch, and the green goes darker under my fingernail so someone walking along might read that. It's not good to leave any signs but still I do this. I do not collect things since collections draw attention. It is possible to collect things in your mind or to gather them and one way to do this is to write them. I will never scratch anything into the bark of a tree since that hurts them but sometimes I will onto a leaf.

The alone time is strict on our watches. Father and I wear matching watches. We set them to match each other. The time on our two watches only matches each other since that's how we set them. If everyone else's time says it's four o'clock our watches might say eleven-fifteen. If the clock on the bank says nine forty-five, our watches might say six-thirty. We change them every few days. If I ever take my watch off I buckle it around Randy's middle, like a saddle next to my blue ribbon, and that way I'll never forget it. I keep it on when I'm sleeping and if my hand is under the pillow I can still hear it ticking.

Father used to say I had to be back at dusk but he learned it's safer for me at night since I know what I'm doing and there's almost no one around. My eyes adjust. It's easy. The animals don't even expect me. I startle possum, raccoons out across the clearings into deeper shadows or across the shiny streets below. I hardly have my hands out in front of me. I can smell when an animal is close.

Quiet I slip to the edge of the trees where broken fences lean. Lights shine through the windows so stretched yellow squares rest in backyards. At a house I can see dogs inside with just their thick heads and pointed ears and curved tails up in the windows. I stop and watch. I try to whistle high like Father can but they just keep walking around without any notice and their tails wagging.

A boy comes out the back door holding something black in his hands. He has square eyeglasses in dark frames around his eyes. The moon stretches his shadow at me and he walks to the edge of his yard and stares where the trees come down thick. He walks from one end to the other.

"What are you looking for?" I say. My voice is not loud, not a whisper.

He is already halfway to the house, hardly looking back.

"Wait," I say. "Don't be afraid. Come back." I step out a little, just so he can see my face.

He squints at me, says nothing. Then he steps a little closer, fifteen feet, a kind of fence between us.

"Are you a real girl?" he says.

"What did you think I was, a ghost?"

"I don't know."

"I'm real," I say. "What's your name?"

"Zachary."

"Do you go to a real school?" I say.

"It's summer vacation," he says. "Are you wearing shoes?"

"No," I say. "I can't tell what's in your hand."