Falling in the Garden

Chapter Two - Preparations

Chapter Two

Preparations

My only thought that next morning was of preparing for the solo expedition into the woods. After a hasty breakfast, I ran downstairs to my room. Waiting in an organized row on my bed were all the essential supplies. Perhaps a little childish, this is how Joe and I would begin our team adventures, whether out on the canoe or into the woods. Carefully laid out, with every thought given to necessity, were our provisions. We would divide everything equally according to weight between our backpacks. My own provisions now were quite similar to a typical outing. From left to right on the bed: compact binoculars, brass compass, canteen (already filled with cool water), three granola bars, dried fruit, a flashlight (we never needed one, but decided that if we left it out of the inventory we’d be severely sorry), a pencil and pen, our work-in-progress map, insect repellant, a Swiss Army knife, waterproof matches and a small magnifying glass. The last object on the bed was something neither of us would ever have thought of bringing. Actually, I had thought of it a few times before, but never believed Joe would go for it: a portable radio/cassette player with earphones. I’d just loaded it with fresh batteries the week before and it sat on my dresser until earlier this morning. Deciding what music to bring along wasn’t difficult. I’d made the tape twice before and always wore it out: a collection of piano solos by George Winston. I placed each item reverently into my blue backpack.

It was just over one full week into summer vacation. A small stack of worn notebooks sat on my dresser. Trig. Bio. European Studies. English Lit. It felt like years since I’d written in them. I glanced around my room and tried to think if there was anything else I might need, as if I were leaving home with only the slightest hope of returning. On one wall were exactly one hundred and nineteen books. I was a slow reader, but figured I’d get a chance to read all of them one day. I picked most of them up at flea markets or used bookstores. I don’t think I paid more then a dollar a piece for any one of them. Posters filled the other walls—posters not of rock groups or swimsuit models, but cheap reprints of Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World”, Dali’s “Persistence of Time” and two Romantic Era Angel paintings. My computer was the only other item of importance, set into a small workspace beneath the lower stairway. I loved to write stories almost as much as I enjoyed reading them. I spent endless hours in front of that computer, composing tales of science fiction and horror; fantastic plots replete with genetic mutants, vampires and other such creatures. I stared at these few, simple things, all unwitting elements of my life, but nothing else seemed appropriate to bring along.

I pulled the zipper across the top of the backpack and shouldered the straps. In one fluid motion, it seemed that I was finally out of my room, out the front door and into the morning.

Before entering the woods, there was one last thing I instinctively knew I had to do. Walking a familiar path up Heaton and Oak, I rounded the hill and made my way downward toward Poplar Drive. I stood in disbelief before Joe’s abandoned driveway. The familiar car and van were gone. All that remained of a well-used badminton net were dry sockets in the backyard lawn. I circled the house slowly, understanding more with each step how much like a shell it had become. The boards and steps and paint and roof meant nothing without those who lived within it. This is what happens to a body when the soul departs, I thought, feeling even more desolate, more abandoned.

I looked up to my best friend’s old bedroom window. No curtains or blinds. Just another crack in the ship’s hull. I imagined that every house in the neighborhood was empty as well. Only the trees spoke to the insistent wind, leaves caressing each other in an audible hush, anticipating autumn. I stood there and waited. Waited for a car to drone by. Waited for the sound of a jet to pass far overhead. Waited for the echo of a barking dog in some distant backyard, all surely signs of habitation. It felt like an hour, but my time standing there probably amounted to no more than a few minutes. Still… nothing but the dry sibilance of wind. The morning fought me on this front and won. I was in no condition for emotional combat. I looked back up at the empty house and closed my eyes, trying to remember the smell of grilled chicken. Once a month each summer, Joe’s father went all out with a barbecue for friends at work and neighbors. I was always there. The smell of sweet onions roasting on burgers, fresh corn boiling on the stove inside and Spanish rice cooling in large, ceramic bowls on the buffet table painted an aromatic masterpiece. There were heated tournaments of badminton as well as quiet clutches of those gossiping about everything from school budget cuts to rising property taxes. I was a relatively shy, but when I was with this amazing second family, my future as an extrovert grew exponentially within me.

These cherished memories burned bright, yet when I opened my eyes there were only ashes. Searching every location for signs of life, I found only myself.

Adjusting the backpack, I retraced my steps back home. Instead of turning left where Heaton Road officially began, however, I remained faithfully straight. The smooth asphalt turned to stone and dry soil. I walked slowly up the hill, stopping only when I reached the Kasner’s lengthy driveway. Turning right, I drank up the evident mystery of this forgotten estate. For years, Joe and I had romanticized about its former occupants. Neighborhood legend offered mere hints of solid information. Leon Kasner and his family lived in the house during the early to mid 1900’s. Aside from rare visits from realtors, the windows and doors remained locked and boarded. A quick glance around again proved my isolation and I moved left, padding across the front lawn. Further on, I rounded the corner of the house and only sensed the gazebo to my left. Further still, I passed the backyard pool on the right—a majestic pool surrounded by topiary bushes, sealed with cracked ceramic tile and guarded at each of its four corners by statues of regal sea-horses. Normally, this was a place to pause and explore, but I needed the woods. I gave a quick, forceful tug at the hanging straps at my side, tightening the pack against my back. Pausing only momentarily at the verge of the drop-off marking the end of the backyard, I shuffled down sideways, wary not to slip. Seconds later, I was at the bottom of the hill and ready. There was no trail entrance to be seen, but I knew from experience that no more than twenty feet straight ahead lay the beginning of the southeastern path. Pushing through the bramble, I found the trail in less than a minute.

It was then that the feeling of being so utterly alone lifted. The simple fact of having so many trees around me, their familiarity, allowed me to breathe easier.

Smiling, I began a well-known route that would eventually take me to the edge of charted and known territory.

I was finally home.