A Wilderness Site: Part VII The End

There was a big elm tree not too far into the grove that I walked behind, placing its large trunk between me and Marty. I remember the tree because it had a lover’s heart carved into it. The carving was almost grown out, and I really couldn’t read the initials inside anymore, but I could tell that way back when, some guy had brought a girl out here, and afterwards had taken out his knife and, while she watched, he carved the heart in the tree’s trunk. They probably figured it meant something special, and at the time it probably did. I started to wonder what had happened to them, the two lovers whose names where in the tree. Did they begin a new life out here by this tree, did they form some sort of union? That seemed somehow strange to think about, like suddenly I was standing in a church or on sacred ground. I guess in my mind I still believe those two people whose initials are carved in that tree are together and happy and that their children are happy, and I guess in my mind I still believe there exists a place where people are all happy and where fathers read stories to their children before tucking them into bed.

Regardless, I was happy to be looking at that heart instead of at Marty. I didn’t know why he wanted to delve so empathetically into the topic of our father, but I definitely wasn’t interested in defending against this new maneuver. I much preferred standing by that tree trying to read the initials and the date inside the carved heart.

When I walked back to the campsite, Marty was shirtless and barefoot. His tattoo and his fatigues were the only unnatural things on his body. “I’m going down to the lake. There’s some beer in the cooler and food in the trunk.” I did not recognize the message behind Marty’s words; I only heard what I wanted to hear, and so often in my life I have come to think back on that nurturing comment as the beginning of Marty’s final monologue––as Marty’s way of tying up the loose ends. For Marty, I am convinced, truly believed what he was going to do was the best solution, that his disappearing would save everybody from suffering. His look right then before he left––he had a cigarette in his mouth and he looked real solemn––was unusual, barely contained, like his whole persona could collapse at any minute and like he might actually cry. I averted my eyes and looked back at the trees. “Hey, Henry...” I did not look at him. “People do stuff that doesn’t make sense sometimes to anybody but themselves. Eventually you got to forgive them for it.”

I did not know until about six months later what had really happened with Marty and the army and that married girl in New Mexico, but when the ranger woke me up and started asking questions about Marty and a missing boat, I somehow already knew––just like I knew Marty had been trying to tell me things, important things, before he disappeared over the water, and just like I knew Marty was just like our father, and just like I knew I was too.

I saw my father years later at Mom’s funeral. Somehow he had found out about it and showed up out of the blue. Marty was wrong about him though. He never did have a new wife and more kids or anything. He showed up old and alone and looked kind of sad and awkward, and, as a favor to Marty, I put my arm around my father’s shoulder and told him it was all all right.