Navigating Early

  “Good, I like blueberry.”

  “Now is it my turn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. It’s kind of like a story problem in math class. If Martin Johannsen bought a new 1894 Winchester rifle, wears old-fashioned clothes that fit you and me, and has unfinished homework from an eighth-grade primer, how old would he be?”

  “It depends. When he bought the rifle new, it would have been in 1894, and if he was in eighth grade, he’d have been around thirteen. So he’d have been born in 1881, and if he was still alive today, he’d be sixty-four.”

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t he have bigger clothes by now? And Mrs. Johannsen said he’d gone off hunting this morning with his new rifle. There’s no gun in this room, and I didn’t see one when we came in.”

  Eustasia Johannsen called from the other room. “Martin Johannsen, you better find your way out here. And don’t try to fool me into thinking you’re finishing your lessons. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Early and I stared at each other. He went over to the desk and picked up the sheet of math problems. The look on his face registered confusion. At least he was realizing that something very strange was going on.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think you had any homework over the break. And you missed number four. It’s negative six.”

  I couldn’t believe he still didn’t get it. The solution to the story problem was finally taking shape in my head. Eustasia Johannsen didn’t think I was her grandson or her great-grandson. She thought I was her son, Martin Johannsen.

  “Let’s go eat.” Early was out the door before I could utter another word.

  The cabin was warm and cozy but showed signs of age in every corner. The tapestry-covered sofa was threadbare. The braided rug was frayed and faded. The enamel pots and china dishes were chipped. Even the gingham curtains were faded and worn. Eustasia Johannsen was still the most ancient of all. Her body curved over on itself like a morning glory that is well into nighttime. But her pale cheeks had gained a little color, and her eyes were a sparkling blue.

  The bizarre scene played out with Early and me sitting at the little white kitchen table, eating chicken-and-dumpling soup and, strangely enough, blueberry jam on biscuits. I hadn’t seen any chickens in the yard, and considering how old and frail Mrs. Johannsen was, and how secluded her home was in the overgrown maze of bush and bramble, I couldn’t imagine how she kept herself from starving. But she didn’t offer any explanation. And of course, Early led the conversation.

  “We’re looking for a bear. Have you seen any around here?”

  “Oh, I can’t say that I have. But Martin here is a fine one for tracking. Now that he has his shiny new rifle, he goes out for hours and hours.” Her face grew a little drawn. “All the neighbors have been so worried. They kept trying to tell me that something must have happened to Martin because he’d been gone so long. They told me I needed to face the facts—that he wasn’t coming back. But I said no.”

  She looked at me with tears in her eyes and gently touched my hand. “I knew you’d come back, Martin. I told them. I said, ‘He’ll come back, and I need to have supper ready when he does.’ ” Her voice shook just a little, and she caught her breath. “And here you are.”

  That was shocking enough—being thought to be the long-lost son of a very old woman. But what she said next was even worse.

  “Now, finish up your supper, and the two of you can go out and start digging.”

  “Digging?” Early said. “For what? Fossils? Arrowheads?”

  “No. You’re not digging to find something. I’ve been ready to let go of this life for a good long while. Neighbors and kin have been telling me, Eustasia, you’ve got to let go. But I couldn’t. Not until my Martin came home. Now that he’s back, I’m ready to die. We haven’t had a hard freeze yet, and it doesn’t have to be all that deep. Just a couple feet is fine.”

  “Are you sure?” said Early. “You don’t want some animal digging you back up.”

  I choked and spit some soup back into the bowl.

  “Well, maybe you’re right.” Eustasia Johannsen sighed. “I guess we’d better make sure I stay put.”

  For the umpteenth time in recent months, I asked myself how I’d ended up where I was. These two, Early Auden and Eustasia Johannsen, seemed made for each other. Why hadn’t she mistaken Early for her son? They were a match made in crazy heaven and could have been very happy together. At least until Eustasia Johannsen began her eternal rest in her newly dug, two-foot-deep grave.

  “Are you planning on being dead before you get in it?” I muttered, not intending for anyone to hear my question.

  Eustasia and Early exchanged amused glances, as if I had just asked the most ridiculous question they’d ever heard.

  “Of course, dear,” said Eustasia.

  “Did you think she was just going to lie down in it and wait?” Early said much too loudly.

  “This worn-out old body has been hanging on for some time. I’ve had to will it every day to keep going. Keep waiting. Keep watching.” She laid her hands in her lap, one on top of the other, and looked at me. “No, this body’s done the work of living, I expect it can do the work of dying, too. Now that I’m ready.”

  Early slathered a little more blueberry jam on the last of his biscuit and gulped it down. “Are you ready, Jackie? We need to start digging.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Partly because I couldn’t think of a thing to say and partly because Eustasia Johannsen started giving Early instructions on where the shovels were and where she wanted her grave.

  “There are two good shovels in the toolshed, and of course, I’d like to be buried next to Martin’s father, over by that sycamore tree. He was a Civil War hero, you know.”

  Well, crazy is as crazy does, and apparently I did whatever crazy thing I was told to, because I got up from that table, put on my—or should I say Martin’s?—coat and hat, and headed out to the toolshed with Early.

  It took a few minutes of rooting in and around the shed to find the shovels amid the mess of chopped wood, rusted-out oil cans, cigarette butts, and broken garden tools. We eventually found two weather-beaten shovels and, as directed, made our way to the old sycamore tree next to a grave marked Colonel Jacob Johannsen. The marker was ready and waiting with Eustasia Johannsen’s name and date of birth, July 14, 1845. Even I could do the math. She was a hundred years old.

  The rain had stopped, and I watched as Early put foot to shovel, driving the blade into the wet ground, clearing out the first chunk of Eustasia Johannsen’s grave. I admit I joined in, but only to make it look as if we were both duly occupied, and the work helped warm us up in the cold of the evening. Plus, I hoped the sound of the shovels would drown out what I had to say.

  “Early,” I said, determined to get his attention. “Early.”

  “What? Is something wrong with your shovel? Here, you can use this one.”

  “Yes, there’s something wrong with my shovel. It’s digging a grave for a woman who’s not even dead yet.”

  “I know she’s not dead yet. But she’s ready. Her worn-out old body has been hanging on for some time,” he said, repeating what he’d heard Eustasia Johannsen say earlier.

  “But she’s not dead. You can’t just decide one day that you’re ready to die and have it happen.”

  Early seemed to think this over, letting the wheels in his brain examine the idea from this way and that. “Maybe not.”

  Finally, I was getting through.

  “But she’s not telling her body to die; she’s just done telling it to keep living. You’re back, and that’s all she’s been living for.”

  “But, Early, I’m not her son! She’s old and confused. I’m probably the same age Martin was back then, and I must look like him, but I have a mother.” I caught myself at the use of the word have. Present tense. That was wrong. Or was it? When you have a mother and she dies, is she still and always your mother? In the present tense?


  The strokes of my shovel grew deeper. The pile of dirt being flung off to the side grew in inverse proportion to the hole Early and I were now standing in, up to our shins. My breathing grew rapid, and sweat dripped down my back.

  “But if you’re not Martin”—Early steadied his shovel in front of himself—“then she has to go back to waiting again. She’ll keep waiting and making her body hang on. Even though she’s ready.”

  I continued digging, now feeling a strange sense of responsibility sinking in as I thought about what Early had said. Eustasia Johannsen was ready. Anyone could see that. Everything about her ancient self gave evidence to it: Her skin, wrinkled and transparent, covering her body like a thin shroud that has been washed and dried more times than it can bear. Her hair, the color of dingy snow in February just waiting to give way to spring. Her remaining teeth, crooked and yellowed, the others gone the way of the old gray goose. But mainly, it was her eyes. They were drawn into her face as if her memories occupied more of her sight than what was actually in front of her.

  I shook my head. “I’m not her son. I’m not Martin.”

  As Early drew his shovel up to his chest, I felt a movement behind me. It was Eustasia Johannsen. I turned around to see her bracing herself against the chill, her shawl hanging loose around her shoulders and her long gray hair being whipped by the cold wind.

  She had heard me. I could see it in the way she drew her shawl up around her shoulders, as if adding an extra layer of skin to fortify her body. To muster enough warmth and substance to persuade her body to keep going another day, and then another.

  “Mrs. Johannsen, I—”

  “Shh.” Eustasia Johannsen held up a hand, her attention having already turned back to the woods. She peered into the trees, searching for a glimpse of a boy’s jacket or the gleam of a shiny new Winchester. “Martin will be coming home soon. I’d better fix his supper. He’s always hungry as a bear when he gets back.” She walked a little ways toward the dense maze of trees and shrubs, searching again.

  I set my shovel against the sycamore tree, and Early followed suit. Once again, it was time for us to leave. We had to go back to the house to get our packs from the porch. Our clothes and jackets hung by the fireplace, nearly dry, and we changed, neither of us saying a word.

  We emerged from the little house ready to resume our journey, but first, Early went to Eustasia Johannsen and did what I did not have the courage to do. He placed an extra shawl around her shoulders, pulling it tight under her chin.

  “Thank you, boys. I hope you come back and visit soon. Martin will enjoy making your acquaintance.” She turned and walked back to the house.

  Somehow, as Early and I forced our way back into the brambly woods, the maze that had drawn us in seemed to loosen its hold, and the path emerged a little clearer than before. We cinched up our packs and hoisted them on our backs, trying to add enough warmth and substance to get ourselves going again, to take another step, and then another.

  26

  The next day was filled with a sad silence. It was easy to forget that Early felt things. He was normally so focused on one thing or another. The goings-on of Pi or building a boat or the quest of finding the Great Bear. Or even just listening to Billie Holiday on a rainy day. But every once in a while I was reminded that Early wasn’t just a mathematical genius, and he wasn’t just a kid on a crazy quest. He was a real boy who had real feelings. And right now his were hurt.

  “I know you’re mad at me,” I said, finally.

  “I’m not mad at you. It’s just that I was wrong about her—the Ancient One from the Pi story. I thought she was a witch or an enchantress. That she was luring Pi away from his real life. But Eustasia Johannsen is just sad because she lost her son. She’s waited all these years for him to come back. And just when she thought she could let go, now she has to go back to waiting and watching all over again.”

  Somehow it felt that Early was blaming me. As if my not being Martin Johannsen was my fault.

  “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. If you’re so big on letting go and not looking for someone who’s not coming back, then why are we looking for a stupid bear on this stupid trail, where supposedly we’ll find your brother, who is also not coming back?”

  It all came out in such a rush that I barely had time to hear my own words before Early ran at me like a charging bull and knocked me flat. He pinned me to the wet, leafy ground, and his arms went flying, landing punches I could barely feel through my padded jacket.

  “Don’t you say that, Jackie. Fisher is not dead.” His fists punctuated his words. “He’s just having trouble finding his way back. And if you say different—”

  Suddenly Early’s arms stopped flailing. His brow furrowed as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. He was still sitting on me, and I thought he was going into another seizure, but then his eyes got big, and he said, “Holy moly, Jackie! Look at that!”

  “I can’t look at much of anything until you get off me!”

  Early scooted to the side and kept his gaze on the ground. I sat up to see what had become so important that it had stopped Early’s tirade.

  There it was. Plain as day, right in the wet ground. A paw print the size of a pie pan.

  We had learned enough from Gunnar to know what a bear print looked like. Wet as this one was, it must have been fresh. And it was big.

  I placed my hand in the giant imprint. “Holy moly,” I repeated. Early and I inched forward on our hands and knees to see the next print, which we knew would be just ahead of this one. There it was. We found six paw prints before the point where the bear must have veered off, onto a rocky patch of ground.

  I was grateful for the diversion, as it got Early’s mind off being mad at me.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see if we can follow him.”

  Between the two of us, Early and me, we found some broken branches and a tree that had some of its bark scratched off. These telltale signs were leading us farther north and farther off the path, but it was good to feel like we were actually making progress, even if it was in search of a ferocious bear. Judging from the spring in Early’s step, I could tell that he felt the same way.

  And somehow, I was getting caught up in Early’s Pi stories—starting to anticipate the ways in which the line between story and real life would blur. We’d been wandering for days, on and off the Appalachian Trail, and now here we were, looking for the Great Bear. And all of it was starting to seem less and less crazy. I was beginning to worry.

  According to Professor Stanton, the numbers in pi would eventually run out. What would happen when we found the Great Bear and there was no Pi? And there was no Fisher? My steps grew heavier as I followed Early, knowing he was heading toward a huge disappointment. But then again, at least Early knew what he was looking for, regardless of whether he’d actually find it or not. Which is more important? I wondered. The seeking or the finding? My mom would say the seeking. My dad would say the finding.

  “We’ve run out of tracks,” said Early.

  “Tell me about it,” I grumbled.

  “But we know we’re heading in the right direction.”

  I didn’t answer.

  We walked a ways in silence, listening only to the rustle of leaves and an occasional woodpecker getting his nose out of joint.

  “Fisher always says, ‘If you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll never get there.’ ”

  “Yeah, well, my mom always said, ‘You’ll get there eventually, even if you have to go everyplace else first.’ ” So there, I thought.

  “Fisher says, ‘You’ll always find what you’re looking for in the last place you look.’ ”

  Typical. Early had to have the last word. Well, not this time. “Mom said, ‘No need to look twice under a donkey’s tail. You already know what you’ll find.’ ”

  “Fisher says, ‘Always wear clean underwear, because you never know—’ ”

  “All right, you win! Now can you shut up about
Fisher?”

  Early did shut up. For too long. He could stay mad, for all I cared. But eventually, the silence got to me.

  “So what was Fisher like?” I asked, trying to break the ice between us. “I’ve seen his picture in the trophy case at school. He seemed like he had the world by the tail.”

  “I guess.”

  “I mean, he seemed like he could do anything.”

  “I guess.”

  “But,” I said, baiting Early into talking, “he probably wouldn’t do well on a quest like this. I mean, this isn’t a contest that you can win and take home a trophy for.”

  “Fisher didn’t care about trophies. He never got a trophy for being the best underwater swimmer. They don’t give out trophies for that kind of thing. But he could hold his breath longer than anyone. That’s how come I know he’s not dead.”

  “Because he could hold his breath a long time underwater?”

  “Yes. There were nine men in his squad. They were trying to blow up that bridge. The Germans were coming from the north side of the bridge. The shed that was blown up was on the south side. One man had to swim the charges across the river and under the far side of the bridge. Fisher would have volunteered to do it. And he would have taken off his dog tags so they wouldn’t make a noise or reflect the moonlight. And he would have swum underwater to avoid being seen.”

  “How do you even know there was a moon that night?” I knew Early had an answer before he spoke it.

  He pulled the leather journal from his backpack, revealing all kinds of handwritten notes and articles on river currents, weather patterns, moon phases, explosives, detonators, waterproof army gear.

  “Where’d you get all this?”

  “The Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Old Farmer’s Almanack. I even wrote the War Department. I didn’t hear back from them, but I guess they’re busy.”

  I looked at the hodgepodge of notes, sketches, letters, articles. It was a confusing jumble of information.

  “See here, where it says—”

  I had heard enough. “Early, think about it. If he’s still alive, where is he? Why does the army say he’s dead?”