“Where we headed?” he called out from behind.
“North,” Caleb said. “Pass by the farm first. Don’t worry, we’ll take the back trails.”
“Where to then?”
“Wherever we want.”
The shadows of the trees and the bushes appeared and disappeared like apparitions in their wake. The sun finally began to rise, and the road was floodlit with its first seeping glow, the essence of something otherworldly, as if the earth itself was dissolving into glittering fragments of light. They didn’t see a single soul the entire journey. Not until they reached the cabin, where a candle was lit, illuminating his mother and father at the dining-room table in the twilit dawn, still in their nightwear. Waiting, he liked to think, for his return.
*
His mother engulfed Prentiss in a hug, letting go only to inspect her son, perhaps unsure if either of them was real, and absolutely bewildered as to how they’d ended up back home.
“I went and got him,” Caleb said. Apparent, but somehow necessary to affirm in words.
“I hope you have a better explanation than that,” his father said. “Is that your grandfather’s rifle Prentiss has?”
Caleb eased his way past his father and made toward the kitchen. There was no time to explain, he said. What was important was that the plan had been successful, at least so far. They just needed some provisions and would be on their way once again.
His mother was following him.
“If you two don’t explain yourselves I will lock that door and I assure you no one will be going anywhere.”
“Go and do that and you’ll only be leading me to the gallows right alongside Prentiss.”
Caleb searched the shelf of canned fruit, taking the jars he pleased and placing them on the counter. His mother looked to Prentiss for an answer instead.
“Ma’am, all I know is he came in and told off that deputy and got me out. Says we’re going north.”
“This is madness,” his father said. “Storming off in the night on a suicide mission. I thought you’d lost your mind before, but you have outdone yourself. I applaud your stupidity.”
Caleb had found a sack and began stuffing the cans into it.
“I didn’t think you’d wake up, to be honest. I thought I might leave a note.”
His father rolled his eyes.
“As if there’s ever been a single night you snuck out that we didn’t keep an eye on you. Now I wish I’d come out and put a stop to it.”
Taking in the worried parties before him, Caleb realized just how deranged he was coming off. He put the sack down and pointed at Prentiss.
“Set to die for a crime he did not commit.” Then he pointed at himself. “At blame. At blame. If he is to hang, then let me hang too. If he is to make it to freedom, then by God I will make that journey with him. Don’t tell me neither of you ever wished to start again. I know what regret looks like. This is the better option. The only option.”
His parents stared at each other, seized by the other’s glance, apparently unwilling to put into words whatever was in their minds.
“I will make my own path,” Caleb said. “And you owe it to Prentiss not to stand in the way of his.”
His mother came forward, too choked up at first to offer any words. There was pride in her eyes along with the tears. She picked up the sack from the floor, her hands shaking.
“The brandied peaches were always your favorite,” she said. “I canned them only a few days ago. But you should take the pears, too, and the apples. In the cellar there’s some salted pork, and I have some sweetbread…”
His father, wearing a blank expression, hadn’t stirred from his place in the dining room. What would he say? What might possibly come next?
His mother went to the cellar. She returned with a handful of goods and stuffed the sack to the breaking point. By now she was sniffling with every other word.
Caleb handed the sack to Prentiss and asked if he’d put it in the saddlebag.
Prentiss nodded. “Might as well pack up my things from the barn. Give y’all a moment.” And he was gone.
His mother surveyed him, just as she’d done before he went out the door dressed for war. And just as she had then, she put a hand on his chin, felt the bristles—searching, he imagined, for the same softness she’d felt when holding him as a newborn, a softness that was alive only in her memories. She brought his head to her ear.
“You write me,” she said. “More than one sentence at a time.”