Ben emerges from the shelves with an armload of supplies. A crowbar, tarp, some respirators, and a putty knife. He’s still smiling at Hank and Steve, but there are those hard eyes again, and once again, the other men’s smiles fade as they study him warily.
“What are you working on today?” Hank asks, nodding toward the supplies Ben’s holding, and Ben gives him a broad wink.
“Found those hikers, decided to take care of the cleanup ourselves.”
Hank blanches, and, at my side, I feel Steve stiffen slightly even as Ben laughs, loud and long, shaking his head.
“Fucking with you,” he says, then turns to me, gesturing behind the counter where, for the first time, I notice a faded flyer bearing the word MISSING. Underneath, there are two blurry, photocopied pictures of a couple of young men in hiking gear, forested mountains rising up behind them.
“It’s been a whole thing,” Ben explains. “Over the summer, these two dumbasses decided to hike the trail on the east side of Ashby House.”
The mountain the house sits on actually has a name—Mount Trossach, after some place in Scotland—but no one in the family ever uses it. Everything up there is discussed in terms of the house, like it’s the only landmark that matters.
I know the trail Ben is talking about. It’s steep and tough, narrow enough in places that you can barely keep both feet on the mountain, and I have a sudden memory of me and Ben on that trail, years ago, his hands gripping my shoulders, his braying laugh in my ear as pebbles skittered from underneath my boots, and the sky and trees swung dizzily around me, my stomach lurching.
Fucking with you.
He’d said that then, too.
“They found one of their packs, but nothing else, and man, we had people crawling all over the mountain for weeks. Nana Nelle nearly had a fit because she could see them from her bedroom window. You were up there, weren’t you, Steve? Were you one of the ones Nana called the cops on?”
Steve’s face is granite now, and I see him clench and release a fist against his thigh. “Nope, can’t say I was. Think they talked to my cousin, though. It was his son that went missing. Tyler.”
I wait for something like shame or even embarrassment to color Ben’s face, but he just shrugs. “Not the first people to go missing up there, won’t be the last,” he says. “My dad used to say that it was like the mountain needed a sacrifice every once in a while. Sucks for Tyler, though.”
He gives the men another nod. “Anyway, thanks, man. Just put it on my tab. You ready, Cam?”
Ben doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing the door open with his hip, the bell overhead ringing.
“Be right there,” I call after him, and once the door slams shut behind him, I turn back to Steve.
“How much does he owe?”
Five minutes later, I’m back in Ben’s truck, over a thousand dollars put on my Visa, and Steve’s last words echoing in my brain.
It’s good to have you back in town, he’d said, his voice low and serious. But if I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open in that goddamn house.
CAMP LUMBEE: WHERE BOYS BECOME MEN
6/28/2004
Dear Ruby,
Camp is okay, I guess. I like the horseback riding, and tomorrow we start archery. Ben won some kind of award in that last year, so I’m probably going to have to listen to him brag about that all day, but that’s nothing new.
I wish you had told me about how much of this place your family owns or bought or whatever? It’s kind of embarrassing seeing my last name on so much stuff, and for the first few days, kids kept asking me if we owned this place. I said no, but do we?
There’s also a picture of you and your dad in the lodge. I guess you came up here when they opened the swimming pavilion? It says you’re “Ruby Woodward,” so I thought maybe it was a mistake or something, but then I looked it up on the computers in the library （those are the only good things in there, by the way. All the books are old Hardy Boys mysteries that I’ve already read, or weird Westerns from the fifties, so if you could send some books, that would be good）。
You’ve been married four times? I only knew about Andrew. I guess it’s none of my business, but it was still weird. I asked Ben about it, but he laughed at me and called me a dumbass. （I’m not swearing, I’m repeating a swear someone else said. You can’t get mad at me for that.）
I have to go now or I’m going to be late for canoeing. Thank you for the money you sent to the canteen, but please don’t send any more because they write your balance on this little sheet behind the counter and everyone can see it. The other guys have like twenty bucks in theirs, and now I have five hundred. Even Ben only has fifty, and one of his friends asked if that meant our family liked me more or something. It sucked （that’s not a swear no matter what you say）。