The Pencil Borrowers

(continued)

By William Gladstone

I have mentioned the knobs and crevices of the tree: shapeless lumps and indentions housing beetles and bugs and bungling creepy-crawlies of every kind. It was a labyrinth, a catacomb of unspeakable natural wonder, a world within the world, full of highways and byways and covert passageways, civilizations sheltered from the sun, the rain, the wind; the purring heart of the tree, open to inspection and projection and speculation for any casual or curious eye willing to make an opportunity for further exploration.

And one Monday, late in the school day, boosted by a smile I'd done nothing to earn, I spilled out to Natalie — Natty as we called her — the fact that there was a certain hole in the tree, just about tiptoe height. A hole where a note, a secret document, could be easily stowed and left protected from the elements and the birds, and the prying eyes of the curious; or, more daringly, where spies, even forbidden lovers, could exchange covert messages, spilling all things hush-hush in penciled whispers. When she appeared to show interest in my discovery, my rambling, I became a touch bolder, promising her a scrap of some kind later that afternoon, delivered before my lesson, waiting for her at her leisure. She laughed, that charming, ear-splitting giggle that so delighted me, and I spent the rest of the day sweated and perplexed as to what this note would say.

The options were limitless and had for generations been handed down in template form with any variation of "Do you like me?" followed by a series of boxes, check one — yes-no-maybe-tell ya later — where all hopes and dreams and newly adolescent desires were floated and/or sunk by a yellow, chewed, standard No. 2 pencil. I wrote that note feverishly, foolishly, fishing some lines of possible worth from the overheard conversations of an older brother; scribbling them on a fragment of paper, rolling this all or nothing message into a stuff-worthy and believable wad and cramming it into the vortex before trailing up the hill to give Mendelssohn a good working over.

There was no going back.

This was a time of ends. I was only aware of some of them; the school year and eighth grade, the piano lessons and Bach and Chopin and Schubert; but not that I would be leaving Buck Valley, my father packing us up and moving us a million miles away to Seattle, the tip-top corner of the country, where a step in the wrong direction got you drowned or frozen or assaulted by bears. And all of these fates were peanuts compared to one step away from Natalie, the risk I had taken, the opportunity I had faced head on.

I had been cool after my lesson. She was on the phone, chattering, that duck laugh, and as she waved me good-bye, I nodded with a wink, a slight jerk of the head in the direction of the tree, imparting a silent, floating message that only she would understand.

We never saw each other again. For weeks, in ache and agony, I wondered if she ever found my note and if she writhed and wriggled in similar spasms, torn apart by the cruel tumbling of the adult world, a world we shared and yet had no say or control over.

And then time unstopped itself, began to flow as before, and with each day my pain lessened. I remembered food and baseball and Zane Grey, and then forgot all about Natalie Mills, the note, the tree, the bloody bits of Mendelssohn strewn across the shag carpet that last day.

The recent wedding of an obscure cousin brought me back to Buck Valley and, with lack of interest turning naturally to boredom, I found myself driving the streets I had once walked, biked, skated upon; covering blocks in mere moments, entire neighborhoods before the next song began on the radio. And then I was there, Stipe Street, that upward slant and 10,000 memories pouring over me as water from a split dam. With a rush and a push, I was there again, scraggly and pimpled, laces untied, shirt half-tucked, dragging my sorry self through the gate and along the walk, dreading my lessons while in the sheer ecstasy of terror in spending forty-five casual seconds with Natalie. And then I remembered the note, the hope of exchange, of wonders and delights and fantasies come true. And I wondered, just maybe…

I still can't tell you what exactly was scrawled on that woebegone shred of paper; what words my fourteen-year-old self thought may coax my princess down from the tower and allow me to escort her to the soda shop. But I was determined to make an attempt, to scale the fence if necessary and pry my message from the decade-old grip of the tree.

Thankfully, a scaling was not needed as the old gate was wide open, beckoning me, calling my name, an old friend with catching up to do. I had little to say: my business was with the tree, so stalwart, so stern, it looked down upon me as God upon Adam, and when we reached hands to gently brush our fingers, I knew that my search would not be in vain.

The secret space was close to eye level now; no need to reach, to call undue duty upon muscles. Miracle of miracles, it was still there, stiff and wrinkled but seemingly intact. With two fingers I slowly, carefully extracted the note from my old friend. It gave way easily, with only minor tearing, and I knew at first glance that this was not the note I had written. My scrap of paper had been white; this was unmistakable lavender. Instantly, my heart dropped to my stomach, screaming down into my guts before leaping back to its proper place, where it beat rapidly and erratically for a full twenty minutes.

Bringing the crumpled relic to my nose, I feigned to catch the faintest whiff of strawberries. Pulling it open, flattening it upon my pants leg, I read the writing plain as pie. I'd have known that smooth, swooping hand as hers anywhere at any time, a thousand miles away in a poorly lit basement, caked with a dozen centuries of Egyptian dust and the fury of the ancients all but ripping it from my grasp. Her message was simple and direct: Friday night, 7:00, Berry Twin.

The sun was setting; it was time to get back; I was expected. I believe I felt heavy-hearted, perhaps disappointed. I know I felt something, some childish, half-numbed sensation trying to make itself known in a grown-up body. But I was no longer there, no longer a part of it. I thought about Natalie's possible disappointment, possible anger, and then when she learned the facts, I wondered how long it had taken her to accept things, to move on, to continue her life without me. Or was she still there, tucked behind a curtain, waiting for the tree to produce my reply?