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I park my pickup on the edge of the clearing and get out. It's perfect tonight, the kind of night that makes a person want to light a cigarette and lie in the grass and count stars. It gets dark out early in here. Outside this hollow, out by the riverbank, the sun is setting over the bayou. I can hear the tiny engine of a bass boat buzzing past the willow trees -- a fisherman is going up to shore by the boat launch. Inside the Willows, circled by tree trunks and weeping branches, it seems later than it is.
Tonight the high school kids won't be coming out here. But tomorrow night, and Saturday night at this time, they will start leaking in. You won't be able to see the worn ground underneath the cars and blankets and fires that will be here then. No one will stop to listen to the bayou water, slapping softly on the trunks of the trees. There will be guitars and ukeleles and anything else. There'll be radios -- shouting -- horns -- spinning tires. My two kids will be here, but they will lie to me and say that they are somewhere else: at a friend's house, or at a midnight movie. They have to lie to me because I am their mother.
It's always been this way. You remember. We would all tell our parents that we were going to each others' houses, and then we would all come here. When you step into the Willows, you loose the strings that make you your parents' child. You forget that you don't do these things, and then you do them.
The Willows wasn't the place for the kind of girl I was at fourteen. Can you see me, cheering for the junior varsity football team? I curled my hair and wore it in a high ponytail. I walked in packs with other girls who wore short, pleated skirts and tight school sweaters. We walked with our noses high, thinking we were all so much, too much. But we weren't much, really. Not when you put us next to the crowd that hung out at the Willows.
Girls like Elaine Collins, girls who wore faded Levis and halter tops, who talked about drinking beer and who smoked on the corner between classes, who never went to class if they didn't want to: those were the kind who belonged to the Willows. They were the kind of girls that my brother liked to talk to by their lockers at school. Sometimes I'd stop and try to talk to Cam on my way to gym class; but then, when I got close enough to say hello, he'd get real quiet and he'd sort of hit the girl's arm and roll his eyes toward me. We had never kept secrets from each other before, and I hated it.
Because his classes were in the senior high and mine were mostly in the freshman hall, it was pretty hard to work it so he wouldn't think I'd gone out of my way to walk down his hall. When I'd see him, I'd wave. Elaine kind of hung all over him, and sometimes -- I swear I saw it -- Cam kissed her right on the lips, right there in the hall. She made me feel awkward. She looked at me as though I was an intruder and Cam was her domain.
When Dad and Cam fought, Dad's eyes were sad, but Cam's were wild. You should have seen Dad's face when Cam brought Elaine home one day after school for dinner. I overheard them fighting, later on, after Elaine had gone home. They were in Dad's study, talking in low, angry voices.
Cam said, "You don't know her, Dad. How can you say that when you don't even know her?"
Dad said, "I know her type."
"Yeah, right. You know her type."
"I'm your father. You watch how you speak to me." Dad's voice was getting that edge to it, the edge that meant quit mouthing off or else you're going to be real sorry. Seemed that lately, Cam wouldn't quit, and he was never sorry enough.
"I'm not going to quit bringing her around."
"As long as you're in my house, you will."
"Fuck off."
A sick feeling started in my stomach when Cam said that. Dad hated that word more than any other.
The time between when Cam said the word and what Dad did next seemed like it would never end. I knew, or thought I knew, what would happen. I'd memorized the script. First Dad would yell, and when he yelled it felt like being slapped. Dad knew the words that could hurt the most, and he used them the way other fathers used belts. Then Cam would swear again, and Dad would kick something or hit something or knock something over. It used to be, before Cam was bigger than Dad, that Dad would hit Cam or me.
Now things were different. I was too young to realize it then, but I think Dad was only trying to hold on, trying to keep us good. But now I know you can't make anyone be what they aren't. Not even by being exactly what they want you to be.
There was no noise in the study for a few minutes. I was crouched by the doorway, holding my forehead and praying that Dad wouldn't kill my brother. I put my head back against the wall.
But when Dad spoke again, his voice wasn't hard and angry, as I had imagined it would be. It was almost a whisper, but not so quiet as a whisper. He sounded like he used to sound when he spoke to Cam, a long time ago -- before Cam started going out with his friends and coming home late. Dad said, "Look, Cam, you're in with a bad crowd. Hallie watches you. How'd you like to see her getting herself all messed up like you? Is that what you want Cam?"
I still get that cold feeling under my skin when I remember how Dad, in a cool, sad voice, said, "You've disappointed me, Camden."
And even worse, I can still hear Cam screaming at Dad, "I hate you!" and calling him a bastard.
I remember the silence that followed what my father said, and how Cam stormed out the front door, slamming it so hard behind him that it knocked the mirror off the wall. I waited all night on the roof outside the room Cam and I shared, wondering what Dad meant about Cam being all messed up. I wanted to talk to Cam, and I waited for him. But he didn't come home all night.
In the morning I found Cam sitting on his windowsill, looking out over the roof. I wanted to go to him then, but even at fourteen, I could feel when Cam wanted to be alone.
I came back here tonight to remember. I came to forget. There is nothing I remember that I want to forget. You'd tell me I should forget it, I'm older now, I have kids and I ought to be upright and full of remorse for what I was then. You think I ought to have forgotten by now.
Tell me: would you forget? I wouldn't dare -- not even the smallest detail: the smell of Cam's wool coat, the feel of his hand on the back of my head, the way he said my name. Hale.
I suppose there might be more. You all seem to think that there is more -- something I should know now that I don't know, something I should have learned, but I'm not sure I have. What seemed the right thing then maybe was the right thing -- then. What seems foolish now, I'm not sure was so foolish.
I've got my memories, but I've also got a place where there ought to be memories and all I can find is fog.
I've grown up some since then. Of course I have! My own kids sneak out at night and I watch them leave, walking down lamplit streets with wool blankets over their shoulders, thinking -- really believing -- that they have some control over me. I watch them swaying down the dark streets and know that they've lied to me. But I say, Go on, have fun. Don't be out too late.
When they're far down the road, when they've turned the corner and disappeared, I sometimes walk out to the road and remember the magnificent, sick feeling of knowing you've lied and gotten away with it. Other times I stay inside, watching from the front bay window, and I try to remember what it was like to be them.
Call me a bad mother. Go on and say it. Say I don't discipline my children, I let them run wild, right? Is that what you think? It would be fair enough for you to say it, but I know better than you know what I am inside. I go to the PTA meetings like I ought to. I see to it that the kids' hot lunch schedule is printed weekly in the paper. Do you know how many school plays I have been to in the past twelve years? As many as any of you.
I grew up just like any of you. See how nice and clean my hands are? I wash them. See how I press my pants so they have a crease crawling up the front of my legs? Those creases scare me sometimes. I wash the dishes after every meal, clean the tiles on Tuesdays, smile pleasantly at the mailman when he brings packages to the door. I do the things you all do, and I know how it is for all of you: all of you who would say you are so sorry about Camden, who would think it was such an unfortunate thing to happen to a boy his age.
But you really don't know.
On Friday and Saturday nights, when Cam was at the Willows, I would go to Bunker's with my friends and we'd buy cokes and talk to boys we didn't know from other schools, or we'd go to the mall and sneak into the movies. We did what fourteen-year-old girls do, never gave it a thought.
But the next weekend, Cam took me with him to the Willows. On the way there, he told me, "Hale, we're both old enough now, right?"
"Old enough to what, Cam?"
"Old enough to talk to each other. Can I tell you something?"
The road we had turned onto was dark, even with the brights on. It was a dirt road that led out to the boat launch where Dad used to bring the dogs out for a swim.
"Yeah, sure. What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking it's all winding down, and now I got to decide what I'm gonna do. But you wouldn't understand that, would you kid." He reached across the seat and put his hand on the back of my head.
The way he looked at me then, I felt like I was the one who was seventeen, and he was the one who was fourteen, instead of the other way around. I felt like I ought to say something really wise, but nothing came to me. "What are you thinking, Cam?"
"I'm thinking," he whispered as he pulled into the Willows, "that tonight would be a good night to say to hell with it all."
He pulled his hand back and rested it on the steering wheel and I felt a cool absence on my neck, where his hand had been. Then he hit the dashboard hard with the same hand and said, "Ah, to hell with it anyhow." He stopped the car and parked it. "Ready, kid?"
It was about half past ten, late enough that we had easily sneaked away without being questioned and forced to lie. By the time we got to the Willows, cars were already parked all around the clearing with its campfires and lanterns. Four guys who called themselves The Lurching Bones were picking at their guitars and calling out broken phrases of songs. Something about the music and the fires, the musty smell of the Willows, and being with Cam made something start dancing in me.
"Stay right by me, alright Hale?" Cam said to me as we started walking through the little groups of people. There were couples everywhere I looked, all mashing and looking at each other. I didn't see Elaine anywhere, and I was really glad. Cam belonged to me tonight, just to me.
Cam walked up to a group of guys who were smoking, and said, "How much?"
"Twenty for an eighth."
"Take fifteen?"
"Twenty."
Cam handed the guy a twenty dollar bill and took a plastic bag filled with greenish-brown leaves. I had seen this before, hidden in a shoe box under Cam's bed. We went back to the blanket we had set out near Cam's car. While he rolled the marijuana, he told me, "You're gonna like this, Hale. It's so intense."
I wasn't sure I wanted to do it -- I'd been warned and threatened. But it was night and I was fourteen and the wind was touching my face just right. And Cam seemed different, not at all the dark figure knocking about the house, keeping secrets from me and sneaking out as soon as Mom and Dad turned out the lights. Now there would be no more secrets between us.
He held the joint to his lips and lit it with a match. The flame of the match fizzled and right away I could smell the sweet-sick smell of the joint, could taste it in the air. I backed away a little.
"C'mon, Hale. I bought it for you." He held the joint out to me.
"You're not having some?" I asked, hoping he would take the first pull.
"Nah. I got my own business. This stuff's for you. Give it a try, you'll love it."
I still didn't take it from his hand. "Hale," he said. "This stuff ain't cheap. Come on, now."
I took it and held it like he did, between my thumb and my forefinger, lightly. Propped between my fingers, the joint felt alive, pulsing when I held it to my lips. I wasn't sure if it was the joint pounding against my fingertips, or everything rushing about inside me, moving against the inside of my skin. I tried to focus my eyes on the burning orange ashes.
"You're almost doing it, Hale. It won't hurt." >P> He was watching me. He said it wouldn't hurt. I believed him as I took the first hit. I always believed him. I pulled the joint away from my mouth and felt all the warm smoke filling up my lungs. My ears sort of tinged, but that was all -- just a faint, lightheadedness that quickly passed with my next breath. "Is that it?" I asked him.
"Try it again," he said.
The second hit came over me like a swarm of mosquitoes, all buzzing in my ears.
"Take one more," he told me. "Take all you can, hold it in." I held the joint to my lips again and inhaled deep. As deep as I could. As deep as it would go. I would do it just like he said. I held it there, way down there, and felt it flooding into me. I sat down and stood again -- I tried to see my shadow and it danced on the side of the car. I watched it closely before I sat down again on the ground with Cam.
That night I wanted more than anything to be with Cam, and for once, he wanted to be with me. It was like when we were younger, when we were the only kids in the neighborhood. We'd wake each other up early on summer mornings and we'd hurry outside to play witch and ogre. Or we'd go out and walk on the railroad tracks. Cam would always make sure I stood far enough from the tracks when the train came and flattened our pennies.
Sometimes at night we would take our sleeping bags and sneak out onto our roof where we'd watch Orion climb the sky until we fell asleep.
Now Cam was watching me. He said I'd feel the world coming into me, and I did. I felt it pulling inside me, like it was trying to hold a piece of me that wasn't there. I put my head back and took in the sky, let it all run into me like an overflowing bathtub.
"Look," I thought I said. I wanted to show Cam that I was like him, that I could do what he could do. But Camden had grown small and the lights from the lanterns had become brighter than the lights at the football stadium.
Now sitting here in the middle of the Willows, that night seems like a book I read once and tried to forget, and the girl who was me seems like a child I want to take home and shake and say, What the hell were you thinking? That night I was young, and spellbound by my older brother. And high.
i was squinting my eyes to see cam it was so light i couldn't see his eyes at all they were all covered. pushing the air away i tried to find him. how come the light? i couldn't understand the light at all. five hits i swore my head was going to open up and let all the silver smoke out. smoke was swirling and circling over me from the fires i thought it was from me.
How's the trip, Hale? cam tilted his head back and laughed. someone's headlight reflected off his teeth i laughed too.
Watch this, Hale. his hand in his coat pocket a syringe. I'm gonna have a shot, Hale.
a shot, he needed a shot, he was gonna have a shot.
Is there a shot for me?
No Hale, this is for me, just me. the needle to his arm. the needle again.
Already? More?
No, first this.
a little envelope with white dots falling from it. his hand all full of them all full of white dots.
A whole mess of 'em, eh Hale?
a whole mess. all messed up.
They are, like you, Cam, Right? cam's face shadowed i couldn't see his eyes.
Watch, Hale.
the dots all in his mouth the needle in my hand.
Put it in my arm, Hale. Right here. a red spot on his arm. a whole mess of them.
I can't Cam, my hands.
my hands were shaking i didn't know why. he took the needle. again in his arm again. i couldn't see his face.
Don't it hurt? the needle? can you feel it going in Cam?
i wanted to see his face it was too bright around us all the headlights fires lanterns the moon. orion too.
Look Cam, Orion. Yeah, I see him, Hale. He's climbin' real high tonight.
Yeah he is will you just look at him climb.
cam asleep on the ground i put my head against his on the tire i finished the joint. i sat close beside him.
You wanted to be with me tonight Cam? i asked him then moving closer to him. i smelled him, something woolen and wonderful and clean.
his eyes opened he looked at me. his face came out of the shadow I could see it without the light in the way.
Ever kissed death, Hale? his lips on mine he brushed his hand on my face.
my hand it reached out to feel the spots on his arm. if i touch him he will stay he won't keep going i'll stop him. if i don't i won't see his eyes again. my hand it drew back i was afraid to make him disappear.
he whispered something i couldn't hear him.
talk louder cam i can't hear you. the willows cam can you hear them? they're making a weird noise they're all buzzing and moaning they're whispering they're fighting i think they might be singing cam listen.
Stop Cam, I'm scared. my voice too quiet. i moved my lips but no sound. i wanted to tell him -- Too much Not more No Cam don't. the needle? too much?
This is the last time, Hale. his arm again. Then I promise I won't do it no more.
he put his head back. his eyes were covered by shadows made by lights moving over us.
the last time. now he was done he wouldn't do it no more. i knew still too much.
Cam I'm afraid.
Don't be afraid. his voice was small his eyes hidden in shadows. i couldn't find his eyes at all. his head tilted back he was quiet he said it would be all right he promised he won't do it no more.
Yeah, Hale, get a real good look. I'm really doing it this time. Don't tell.
I didn't tell. Who was there to tell?
I woke up with my head all full of dreams, resting on Cam's arm. The earliest light of day had forced my eyes wide open and I saw where we were, though what I remembered of the night before wasn't entirely what had happened.
We were on the ground beside the front tire of Cam's Mustang. Everyone else was gone, and the ashes from the fires that blazed all night were just piles of dusty smoke. The Willows wasn't such a wild, glorious place as it had seemed the night before. The ground was burnt and littered. The willow trees that seemed to sing before were twisted now, and silent. There wasn't even a breeze, only the sound of an early morning fisherman rowing his boat in the bayou. The steady splashing of the oars grew quieter and further away.
"Cam," I said. But Cam didn't answer.
"Come on, Cam, get up. We've gotta get home." I sat up and moved to shake him a little, but as I did I realized he was cold like the dirt he was lying on, and he wasn't moving at all.
I lifted the hat from his face. His eyes were open. He had the strangest look on his face, the kind of look Dad used to give us when he'd reached out to one of us and slapped hard before he realized how hard he could hit.
All of you who were there that night when he took his last hit, his last breath: where were you the next morning when I screamed?
My kids don't have to tell me: I can feel it all happening again. You all pretend you don't know where your children are when they are not in their rooms at night. Don't you smell it on their clothes when you do the laundry? Don't tell me you've forgotten the smell.
You think they're so much better than you were; you think you raised them right. But even your children -- yes, yours -- search inside themselves, smoking dope, doing something -- anything -- to convince themselves that they are separate from you. Seems like you quit looking at them when they turn thirteen. You turn your eyes away from them until they are eighteen, or twenty-one.
But your children -- yes, your children -- are just like you.
It's getting late, and I have a PTA meeting at seven tomorrow morning. There is nothing left for me to see here. I turn the truck around and take the two-track out of the Willows. As I leave, pulling through the thin forest of goldenrod and cutgrass, I feel like I've forgotten something. can you hear it? cam the willows i think they're singing.
But when I look back there's nothing there behind me: just an empty clearing surrounded by a forest of willow trees, all tangled in the breeze.
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