Part 11
Kurt doesn't talk to Dave the following morning. He can't. His emotions clog his chest, his throat, his brain. He stays curled up in bed for the better part of the day, ignoring the knock on his door and Dave's whispered, "Do you want to come feed the chickens with me?"
Kurt never responds. He feels guilty later, thinking, What if Dave decides to eat one of the girls? The thought spurs him into motion. He stumbles into the living room, barefoot, then out the front door. The sun is already more west than east. The ATV is gone, and no matter how hard Kurt listens, he doesn't hear the thrum of the engine.
I need to go check on them. He wants to run there now, sprint as fast as he can to make sure they're all alive. His feet are still tender though, so he hurries back inside to shove his feet inside his boots. He doesn't bother changing from his sleeping shorts and t-shirt.
The drive on the four-wheeler only takes a few minutes, but it takes much longer by foot. Kurt gets turned around a few times, but he finally catches sight of that giant tree. Dave's battered vehicle is nowhere in sight, and neither is Dave.
Still, Dave knows this place better than anyone, and he might have only been parking near the tree for Kurt. He swerves around the trees, arms out for balance. By the time he reaches the mesh fence, each breath pulls painfully through his lungs. Come on, Kurt thinks, yanking the chain free. He dashes down the narrow path, dirt exploding in short clouds under the tread of his boots.
The back gate is closed too, and the moment it takes Kurt to pull the second chain free feels like a lifetime. The coop is in sight. He can see a few of the chickens, but not all. The chain slips free and Kurt drops it to the ground. He jerks the gate open and springs forward.
Kurt counts. Noah is resting beneath the ramp, snug and comfortable. Madonna and Helen are pecking merrily at the remaining feed. Paris has a worm in her talon and is teasing it with her beak. His big girl, Aretha, is napping in the combined shadows of the coop and a nearby tree. Kurt can see Mary Kate, Ashley and Jessica curled up together inside through the small screened in window on the side of the coop.
Halle Berry is nowhere in sight. "No," Kurt whispers like a curse. He stumbles forward to twist open the lock of the fence. The chickens scatter, wings flapping and eyes wide. Kurt heads straight for the open hatch of the small structure. He doesn't know how to unlock the whole door, so he sticks his head through the chicken-sized hole.
It smells like a garbage can, waste and dirt and decaying feathers littering the floor. The three ladies Kurt saw outside the window make enough racket to wake the dead. Kurt even gets hit in the head with a wayward wing. None of that matters though. Halle Berry is staring at him with curious black eyes from the corner of the coop.
Relief pours through Kurt's veins. He laughs, chokes on the foul air, and then bangs his head on the top of the door on the way out.
"Shit," he curses, laughing again at his vulgarity. He rubs his head, soothing the ache. Feeling lightheaded, Kurt settles against the ramp, plywood trying valiantly to poke splinters through his shirt. He doesn't move. He just lays back, legs on either side of the wide board, and closes his eyes.
The sounds of the chickens are soothing. A few of them are still showing their indignation with the constant hop-ruffle of their feet and wings. Most of the girls though have already calmed down. He can hear one of them clucking quietly to his left. Probably Madonna, that girl has no fear, Kurt thinks. Then, Oh my god.
He drapes an arm over his eyes and says with a manic chuckle, "I'm going crazy." His laugh dies, strangled by the depression that weighs on his chest. Kurt thinks of his dad, wondering if the man has given up searching. He'd never give up. Kurt imagines dark circles under his father's eyes and the lines of worry, wrinkles folded into his skin. Please be okay. The thought of another heart attack while Kurt isn't there to take care of him scares him beyond belief.
"What am I going to do?" Kurt asks, opening an eye to see which of the hens are around. Helen has grown curious and is bobbing near his foot. "Huh Helen?" He sits up and grabs her. She flutters in his hands, trying to escape. "Shh," Kurt says, setting her on his chest. "I'm not going to hurt you." He runs the edge of his nose through her side feathers. She smells like the forest and dust, but she's soft and her feathers tickle his nose. The beat of her heart pounds against his finger tips.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Kurt says again. He draws her even closer, up to his neck, savoring the feel of a living thing in his arms. "I just need a hug." She doesn't peck him, which surprises Kurt. I would have pecked me, Kurt thinks. I did peck Dave.
He releases the chicken and stands. The gate of the coop is still hanging open and Noah is standing precariously close to the frame. Sighing, Kurt walks the few feet over and kicks at the rooster with his foot. Startled, Noah flaps backwards and Kurt slips through the door, closing it in one quick motion. He locks up and heads back to the cabin.
The trip is slower this time. As he walks, Kurt takes in the scenery, really looking, for the first time since he's traveled here. He looks at the leaves on the trees, noting their differences. He drags the pads of his fingers along the narrow petals of the little purples flowers that grow in clusters all around the area. As he gets closer to the cabin Kurt finds the same yellow flowers that have appeared on the kitchen table more than once.
It is beautiful here. Kurt can't deny that. When the sun is shining, the forest sparkles with color. Since the rain yesterday, the humidity has dropped, and the air is pleasantly warm. "A perfect mall day," Kurt says. He pictures his favorite shops and food court where he gets strawberry-kiwi smoothies.
The wooden walls of the cabin jump into sight, and that familiar feeling of hopelessness clamps down on Kurt's chest. His glances at the tool shed. The ATV is still gone. "Dave?" Kurt calls out, just in case. There's no answer.
He heads back into the house, boots banging against the porch steps. The door is ajar. It's not like anyone is going to come in and steal anything, Kurt thinks as he remembers running out without shutting the door. Still, he calls out, fingers wrapped around the door frame. "Hello? Dave?"
The only reply is silence. Tentatively, Kurt steps inside. The door clicks shut and he looks around the room. Everything seems the same. The same wooden table to his right followed by the kitchen, and the couch, chair and bookshelves to his left. The fireplace and hallway lay ahead. Gaga, you're being stupid. There definitely aren't any bears in here. Kurt's not even sure there are bears in the Canadian forest. Only moose.
He walks down the hall and checks his bedroom anyway. It's just the way he left it, bed unmade and stupid, beautiful furniture. The bathroom is empty as well.
Now Dave's room.
Kurt been avoiding his captor's room the way a mouse avoids a cat. Logically, he knows that he should have searched it the moment he had a chance. However, he hasn't been able to force himself to go inside, too afraid of what he would find. He takes a deep breath and twists the handle.
Physically, it's not much different from his room. There's a queen sized bed to the right of the door and a single nightstand on the other side of the bed. There's an unlit oil lamp sitting on top along with a closed copy of 1984. Across from the bed is a dresser, half the size of Kurt's; a mirror hangs above. The workmanship is the same- dark, smooth wood and golden handles. The major difference is that Dave's room has a small desk nestled in the far right-hand corner with a window high above.
Kurt steps inside. The musky scent of earth and sweat hits his nose. It smells like him, Kurt thinks. Navy blue sheets cover Dave's bed. Four matching pillows sit neatly at the headboard. A tan colored comforter is folded at the foot of bed. Walking forward, Kurt scans everything, unsure what he's looking for, just searching for anything useful.
The top of the dresser is littered with items. The clutter doesn't fit the rest of the house, so Kurt touches everything, figuring out what's what. A bundle of dried flowers, of which kind Kurt has no idea, lies across the back of the dresser. There's a shallow bowl, red and blue in color, which holds a variety of stones. They're nothing special, just brown and red and black pebbles. It's more a child's collection than an adult's. Another bowl, larger than the first, holds lumps of honey colored wax. Nothing has a wick, so Kurt's not sure what Dave uses them for.
More interesting is the miniature carved statue of what appears to be a Native American chief. The little man wears a long robe that's been painted the color of wheat. A colorful headdress crowns the statue's head. Kurt picks it up and runs his thumb over the man's features. "This is amazing," he says softly. Not wanting to break it, Kurt gently sets it back in place.
There are a few others things on the dresser- a little cloth bag full of coins Kurt doesn't recognize, a worn deck of playing cards held together with a rubber band, and a tin box of chewing tobacco. Kurt doesn't remember Dave ever chomping on the nasty stuff. The box seems untouched. Kurt moves on.
Dave's desk isn't wide, just large enough for a single man and his work. Kurt imagines Dave's elbows poking over the sides as he sits to do his business. It's not the same workmanship as the other furniture in the house. The dark wood matches, but the innate carvings- spirals and round leaves- on the legs and on the top of the shelves cries the work of an artist, not a young craftsman. The thing is older than anything else too. Dings and scratch marks mar the surface. The protruding knob on middle drawer has been replaces with something newer than those of the drawers on either side.
A simple wooden chair is pushed inside the hallowed space underneath the tabletop. Kurt draws it back and takes a seat. He runs his hands over the empty surface of the desk, feeling multiple indentations. There's a curious line, a little longer than the length of piece of paper, which cuts through the wood near the back of the desktop. It's not deep. Kurt has no idea what could have done such a thing.
Three shelves tower on each side of the desk with a single long shelve bridging them across. Only two of the shelves hold anything. Kurt sticks his hand in the bottom two on the left side and pulls out the items. One shelf held a stack of blank paper. Kurt flips through the pages, double checking that there's no important information written on the lines. The other shelf held a brown leather journal. He unties the string around the cover and opens to random page.
There's a sketch of a tree and photo of the same tree tucked in crease of the journal. Beneath the drawing is the label Fraxunus nigra (Black Ash). The whole book is like that. Some sketches have photos, some don't. Trees and flowers and bushes and vines are all identified. Ones that are edible are marked so, and ones that have healing properties list the medicine and injuries they belong to. The journal is fascinating, but Kurt has drawers to look through. He sets the book and papers back in their places.
He starts with the middle drawer, the biggest. As he pulls it open, pens roll towards him. There are four, and they're the nice kind, the type you keep forever and replace the ink when needed. Kurt ignores them and lifts out the thick manila envelope instead. "Now this is interesting," Kurt whispers. He opens the flap and shakes out the contents inside.
At first, he doesn't know what he's looking at. He spreads the photos out. One captures his attention. "This is my house." The words ghost across the air and stinging Kurt's lips. He picks up the picture and stares. It's his old house, where he and Dad lived before they all moved into the new place with Carole and Finn. The tree with the tire swing stands proud and tall in the front yard. We cut down that tree when I was thirteen after a storm killed most of it.
Kurt closes his eyes. His mouth goes dry and the protective part of his brain says, Don't look. He doesn't listen. Instead, he listens for any sign of Dave, and when he hears nothing he gets up and grabs the oil lamp from Dave's nightstand. The lamp settles easily on the desk and brightens the whole area once Kurt lights the wick. He slides back into the chair, elbows stiff against the arms.
One by one he goes through the pictures. There are three hundred and six of them. Kurt counts them twice. Some are of Kurt doing various things- riding to school, shopping at the mall, reading on the back porch, talking on the phone at Dad's garage. Other pictures are like the house. They mark things in Kurt's life- his SUV, McKinley High, the church where Dad and Carole got married, his mother's grave.
"God." He stuffs the pictures away and buries his hands in his hair. "What am I going to do?" he says for the second time that day. Despite the fact that Dave leaves him alone and lets him walk around, Kurt can't just run away. He's in the middle of the Canadian forest, which is endless. Kurt could walk for days on end and never run into anyone else. I could steal the ATV. The idea is appealing. Now that Kurt's ridden on it, he's pretty sure he could drive it, if he could get the key. Dave may let Kurt roam, but he never lets the key leave his person. Then again, he runs into the same problem with ATV. I have no idea where to go.
Kurt tugs on his hair, letting the pain distract him for a moment. "Focus." He puts the envelope back into the drawer. I need to know more. He opens the other two drawers. The left one holds another journal with designs and instructions for building furniture and gardens and other things a man would need to know to be self-sufficient. Kurt shoves it away.
The right drawer holds a single photograph and a folded piece of paper. Tentatively, Kurt takes them out. The photo is of a much younger Dave, maybe ten or eleven. He still has the same serious eyes, but his whole demeanor, slouched shoulders and wide grin, speaks of comfortable happiness. There's a man with the same hazel eyes and broad frame standing behind the boy with an arm draped over his shoulders. He has a small belly, graying hair and a Van Dyke beard. They're both wearing camping gear- thick jeans and boats and brown shirts. Packs lay at their feet, filled to brim. A tent stands in the distance, sandwiched between two trees.
Kurt flips the picture over. "Dad and David," he reads aloud. He turns the picture over and looks again. "Who are you?" he asks to an empty room. "How did you get to be like this?"
He unfolds the paper. Kurt was expecting a letter. Instead, he finds what appears to be a typed page of a story. He reads through the words, trying to find meaning. It doesn't make sense. The number one-twenty-four sits centered at the bottom of the page. The cross shaped creases of the paper are deep, as if the page has been folded and unfolded many times. "I don't understand," he says, frustrated. Frowning, Kurt reads the page again then puts it and the photo away.
His knees and back crack as he stands. The world outside the window has grown dim. How long have I been sitting here? Kurt wonders. He extinguishes the lamp and puts it back on the nightstand. He has to wait a few second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Traveling back into the hall, he shuts the door behind him and calls out, "Dave? Are you here?"
There's no answer. Kurt grabs a lamp from the kitchen, lights it, and heads for the front door. Stepping outside, he looks around. The ATV is still gone. "Hmm." The sun is setting in west¸ behind the cabin, and the sky is pink and orange. Red sky at night, sailor's delight. The old saying pops into his head. It's going to be a beautiful day tomorrow, Kurt thinks. Not that it matters. What am I going to do? Feed chickens with my kidnapper?
Kurt takes a deep breath and goes back inside. His stomach grumbles. He hasn't eaten anything all day. He set the lamp on the kitchen table and flips the switch to the only electric light in the house. It buzzes to life overhead and Kurt opens the fridge door. He stares for a second before pulling out the ingredients to make French toast. "At least I can eat something I want to eat." It's not really a fair statement, because while Dave's meals aren't fancy, they're nutritious and mostly tasty. He finds maple syrup on the wire pantry rack next the fridge.
When his meal's done he washes up then goes outside again. The sun is down. It's got to be at least nine or ten, Kurt thinks. Dave's been gone since this morning. A tingle of worry creeps down his spine. He goes back inside and heads for the bookshelves.
He bypasses the fiction books and takes a plant identification guide off the shelf. "Might as well start learning something useful." He thinks about the journal in Dave's desk. I wonder where he went.
Kurt tries to pay attention. He runs his fingers down the lines of words, reading. He looks at the pictures, trying to place trees and flowers he's seen. But every noise from outside has his head jerking towards the door. The lamp burns. A knot forms in his stomach.
He snaps the book shut and tosses to the other side of the couch. I smell. He sniffs his shirt. Standing up, Kurt makes his way to the bathroom. He hadn't wanted to be in the shower when Dave came back, but it's not like the man has come in any other time Kurt's cleaned himself. He sheds his clothes and starts the water. It chugs out that rusted brown color first, like always, but after a minute it runs clear and warm. He tugs the part for the showerhead and water sprays down to the tub below.
He showers for a long time. The water feels good, and Kurt lets his mind drift while it beats down on his skin. He tries to think of everything he knows of Canada, but comes up frighteningly unknowing. The public school system at work again. He scrubs himself clean, careful of the tender places where scabs decorate his skin.
When he's done, steam clouds the mirror. He towels off, capturing every droplet he can. "Damn it," he curses. I forgot clothes to change into. Cloth wrapped around his middle, Kurt eases open the bathroom door and pokes his head outside. He doesn't hear anyone and Dave isn't in sight. He dashes to his room, door snapping shut behind him.
Shirt and drawstring pants on, Kurt pads out to the living space again. "Dave?" he questions. He checks for the four-wheeler again. What if something happened to him? What if he's dead? He presses his nails into his palms. How will I get home?
Mouth achingly dry, Kurt goes inside for water. He curls his legs under his body and picks up his book again. Time ticks by, slow and torturous. "I'd kill for a tv." The sounds of night, crickets, owls and other creatures parade outside the cabin, annoying Kurt to no end. I'd trade my whole Marc Jacobs collection for the sounds of tires, car horns, and the occasional drunk neighbor.
He gets up and starts pacing the room. The sound of the ATV rumbles outside. Kurt runs to door and flings it open. It's too dark to see; he has to go back for the lantern. The lights of the four-wheeler are on, and Kurt can see Dave's broad shoulders and his helmet covered head. There are three plastic containers, the kinds that people put spare gasoline in, strapped to the back of the ATV. A cardboard box is next to the containers.
Dave cuts the engine and the lights go off, but the lantern Kurt's holding shines bright enough that he can still see the man, the vehicle and the outline of the tool shed. Dave unstraps the gas containers and sets them against the wall of the shed and grabs the box. He heads for the cabin.
As he thumps up the steps Dave shifts the box in his arms and says, "Thanks for coming out here with the light." He eases inside, dropping his load on the kitchen table.
Kurt follows, letting the door slam shut behind him. He stares at the man. Dave might have left the helmet with the ATV, but the off-roading goggles rest on his forehead. He's got a slight tan where the straps wrapped around his face. He's covered in dirt. He's been off playing on the ATV all day.
Anger explodes across Kurt's chest. "Where the hell have you been?" he shouts. He slams the lamp on the table. Oil sloshes against the glass and almost extinguishes the flame.
Dave blinks. A frown pulls across his face. "What do you mean?"
What do I mean? "What do I mean? I mean, where the hell have you been?"
"I did a supply run." Dave says defensively. He grabs the back of chair. "I thought you'd like the time alone."
"You were gone all day. I had no idea where you were. For all I knew you were dead in some ditch somewhere or killed by a moose." Kurt lets the anger spread through his body. It makes him feel strong.
Dave's frown deepens. His mouth opens, but suddenly, his whole body shifts. A warm look eases onto his face. "Were you worried about me?"
"Dave," Kurt shouts, flinging his arm forward. "I'm here all alone, in a place I know nothing about. If something happened to you I'd die." The words fly from his mouth. They hit Kurt as hard as they hit Dave. Kurt closes his eyes. When he opens them again Dave is pawing through the box.
"Seriously?" Kurt snaps. "Now is not the time to be going through your junk. You need to talk to me!"
Dave straightens. "Here," he says. Kurt stares dumbly. "I got this for you."
Slowly Kurt reaches out and takes the case. "You got me a cd?" Dave nods and sticks his hand back in the container. This time he takes out a small boom box.
"I noticed you haven't used the personal player in your room, so I thought I'd get a bigger one that we could both listen to." Dave sets it on the table.
Hands shaking, Kurt opens the plain case. A lump forms in his throat. "You got me the soundtrack to Rent?"
Dave shrugs. "I knew you were upset. I had to go get fuel for the ATV. We've been driving it more than I usually do. They had some at the store."
There's a store within a day's driving distance, Kurt thinks. Dave hands him two more cds. "Broadway's Greatest Hits and Now 25," Kurt reads. He looks up and finds Dave staring at him.
"There wasn't a great selection," Dave says apologetically.
"No, these are great." Kurt snaps Rent from its case. He slides the boom box cd player across the table. "Does this already have batteries?" Dave nods, eyes glued to Kurt's face. Kurt sets the cd inside and turns it on.
Music blares to life, the loudest thing Kurt's heard in forever. The voices of the cast sing. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. Tears pool in Kurt's eyes.
"Hey, I'm sorry," Dave says, coming forward. His hands hover near Kurt's shoulders before dropping away. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
I feel like I'll never stop crying. "No," Kurt says. He wipes at his face. "I'm okay." Droplets slide down his cheeks. "This is just really nice." He licks the tears that catch at his lip and closes his eyes to listen to the music.
When the song is over he looks at Dave. "Thank you." Dave nods and gives Kurt a tentative smile. For the first time in a long time, Kurt smiles too.