The Dangerous Kind & Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

grunting. My father once told me that when you are in the woods, find a spot and sit still so the forest can forget about you. “First things go all quiet, like the woods are listening for you. Then everything wakes up around you. Pay attention and the wind will whisper things. You’ll swear it says something if you listen long enough.”
    I waited. At first, all I heard was Jason struggling. Then birds sang to each other, first one or two at a time. More birds joined in and they sang louder and more often, confident in their safety. I listened to Jason cry, but I was thinking about the deer. After a while, I closed my eyes and pictured Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I would lose myself amid the city noise, drown in it. I would have Dad’s insurance money and I would not be owned anymore. With a smile on my lips, I fell into a doze.
     
     
     
    When my head bobbed forward, I rubbed my eyes. The daylight had dulled and Jason was quiet. I didn’t move until sure of my reward. The only breath I could hear was my own and the shallow sigh of the cold wind breathing on the nape of my neck. The wind said nothing to me. I took the silence for a message: God is not watching. Nature does not care. I stretched out stiff legs and crept toward the trail. I didn’t not want to disturb the birdsong.
    The Scar was up to my left. I turned right toward town. I felt fresh, calm, and rested. My legs and feet were still wet but I was weightless. I memorized this feeling so I could revisit it. “Today everything changes,” I said. “New start. The slave is free.”
    The gray-lit sky told me it must be at least late afternoon. My empty belly growled. Dusk in Maine comes quickly in November. Poeticule Bay residents would already be looking for the last lobster boat’s return in dimming light. Everyone in fish and lobster-trap towns are oriented to the Atlantic. Their heads swivel not to the sunset behind Mount Hanley. Instead they'd naturally be looking to the heave and roil of the waves to glimpse boats and seals. Everyone’s back would be turned to me as I trudged into town. I waited for the burn of guilt in my head and panic to sweep over me but it didn’t come. 
    At the bottom of the mountain, I came out of the trees and took the new logging road. Wide and flattened with slow, easy curves, it accommodated the 18-wheelers the forest feeds. I walked past the spot where Jason and I pushed through the woods that morning. I saw no evidence of our trail. The tall grass had recovered from our passing. Such easy erasure seemed a good sign.
    My mother died of a heart attack on a sunny afternoon just like this had been. I did not know the word “incongruous” then. Before she died, I thought it should rain when someone loses their life. Dad died out of sight of the sky, surrounded by the smell of sawdust and the roar of the machine that chewed, swallowed, and spit him out.
    Now Jason was dead beside the beautiful deer he killed on another bright day. I searched for the opposite of incongruous. “Right,” I said aloud. “The word is right .”
    Once I reached a scattering of houses at Poeticule’s edge, I sprinted. It would do me no good to be seen strolling. I flagged down a car halfway into town.
     
     
     
    The fire hall siren wailed and this time, it kept going. The volunteer firefighters gathered first. Within a short time, the telephone tree brought most of the able-bodied town residents into the search. Chief Rose’s Jeep smelled of cheap cologne losing the battle to fat man sweat. He asked me questions between heavy breaths. Why had I not stopped at the first house to use a phone?
    I shrugged and looked down. “Panic.” That, I was sure, would get me through: I was lost… I got confused…. Please save my brother…. Repeat.
    Night was closing in before we got to the bottom of the trail. Dick and Rich flanked me while Chief Rose puffed behind us. I worried that the Chief was going to have a heart attack, too. I suggested