Gone to the Forest: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

is still smiling. Thegirl is watching him and despite all her wiles she is in danger of
     growing fascinated. Tom can already tell. His father is more than twice her age but her
     eyes are pinned to his lips as he speaks to her in his fur-lined baritone. The old man
     cheats wild horses of their freedom with this voice. It runs deep into his chest, silky
     smooth and dry.
    Tom dislikes the girl and is fearful of her. But he does not want her to
     her fall into the old man’s trap. Tom lives at the bottom of the trap. There is
     not very much space and he does not want to share his father with her. Tom has spent a
     lifetime watching people fall down the hole. He has never enjoyed the company. The girl
     looks at his father. She widens her eyes. It is too late, he thinks. She is already
     falling.
    “Thomas can take you fishing some time. If you like.”
    “I would like.”
    She says the three words evenly and quickly. What she says—the would and the like —has nothing
     to do with fishing or with Tom or with anything that has been discussed at the table,
     anything that has been said out loud, since they arrived on the farm in their car.
    Or perhaps it does. Have to do with everything that has happened since
     they arrived. Because now his father leans forward. His eyes rest on Tom and then return
     to the girl. He smiles. She smiles. The whole table smiles. Mr. Wallace and Mrs. Wallace
     sit back and for the first time that evening Mr. Wallace cracks a smile that is broad as
     daylight.
    Only Tom does not smile. He glares at the dinner guests. They would do
     better to be cautious. They are beaming athis father—they
     grin and grin, mouths wide open—but they would do better to be aware of the
     situation they have walked into. Whatever that situation may be. The Wallaces are fools.
     They are no match for his father.
    T HE NEXT DAY Tom oversees the storage of
     the outdoor furniture. All summer the lawn and veranda are dotted with daybeds and
     settees. Today they gather the furniture from the lawn—the sign that the summer
     season is officially over. It is a full day’s work. The servants bring the tables
     and chairs to the veranda. The wood needs oiling and there are necessary repairs.
    Tom stands in the middle of the fray. He directs the servants. He inspects
     the polish. He checks the removal of the stains. His father stops to observe the
     proceedings. He brushes a hand against the wood. It has been made to order in the style
     of the furniture back in the old country. A reminder of the separation between the farm
     and the rest of the country, it is also the separation itself. The barrier being made of
     furniture and teapots. The old man nods approval and waves to the servants to continue.
     Then he motions for Tom to follow.
    They walk around the veranda and out to the lawn. His father stops and
     looks in the direction of the servants on the veranda. They are bent over the furniture.
     Two men pick up a table and move in the direction of the storeroom.
    “That’s a good job.”
    Tom is pleased. It is true it is a good job. He has exertedhimself today, they all have. He notes that his father is in a good
     mood. Perhaps he slept well. The Wallaces left early, knowing better than to wear out
     their welcome. The farm is theirs again. Tom stands beside his father, in what he
     believes to be the glow of his approval.
    The father invites the son to sit down. There are two chairs that have not
     been taken in, that stand forgotten in the middle of the lawn. Tom sits down. His father
     sits down next to him. He crosses his legs at the ankles. He folds his hands into a
     steeple and taps finger to knuckle. Buh buh buh. He sits and
     watches his son. He does not look out at the land. He does not look at the river, which
     is visible down the slope of land and through the trees. He looks at Tom.
    “What do you think of Carine?”
    Tom shrugs.
    “She is pretty, no?”
    Tom stares at his father. He cannot