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I put one hand on his arm.
“It’s not,” I tell him.
“I thought you made it very sexy,” he says, raising one eyebrow and half-smiling.
“Thank you,” I laugh. “But in a story about brigands and hidden treasure, How do we properly value a tree? isn’t really the part that grabs one’s attention.”
Levi sighs. When my editors cut the part about the fascinating economics of national forests, he was more put out about it than I was. I mean, I understand that it’s not the most interesting part and there are space restrictions in a magazine.
He, on the other hand, grumbled about it for days. I think he might have been more offended that something I wrote got cut so much, even though I tried to explain that this is just how it works, and I wasn’t upset in the least.
The Atlantic still published a story I wrote. They can do whatever they want, they’re The Atlantic.
“They’ve at least got records, right?” Charlie asks, spreading cheese on a cracker and popping it into her mouth. “Tell me now they can’t get jobs in the government or carry firearms and all that. Or vote. I don’t want them voting.”
I’m about to answer when Caleb’s head pops around the corner again, and this time he’s grinning. He is grinning too much and I don’t think I like it, because I’ve learned that Caleb smiling too much can be trouble.
“You can come out now,” he says. “Follow me, please.”
Levi and I exchange another look, then follow his youngest brother through the living room and out the front door, his hand steadily on my lower back.
When we get to the front porch, I see Silas look at the hand.
Then he looks back at something that’s six feet tall by three feet wide and currently covered by an old sheet, and when I follow his gaze, I panic a little bit.
“Silas,” I say, my tone a warning, but my old brother just smiles bigger. Behind me, Levi sighs.
“All right,” he says.
“Shall we unveil it?” Caleb asks Silas.
Together, they grip the sheet, count down, and pull it off.
It’s a chainsaw carving of two bears, and it leaves Levi and me speechless.
The bears are upright and smiling. The taller one is holding a fishing rod and the shorter one is holding a fish, and in front of them is a sign that says WELCOME TO OUR DEN!
“Wow,” Levi finally manages to say.
“You shouldn’t have,” I deadpan.
“I think it matches Jedediah perfectly,” Caleb says. “And it really captures a certain je ne sais quois about Levi, don’t you think?”
“And the craftsmanship is masterful,” Silas says, also regarding the carving. “I think this piece welcomes yet threatens at the same time, revealing the duality of the hospitality experience in America.”
I can’t stop staring at it, mouth open, because I can’t quite comprehend that this thing is on my porch.
It’s so… big. And wooden. And friendly.
And tacky. Lord, is it tacky.
“You love it, right?” Caleb asks, glancing over at us. “We had this specially commissioned for you two, and we were a little bit worried that it wouldn’t be ready by the party, but luckily Silas knows the sculptor and he was able to do us a favor.”
This is custom-made?
For us?
“Okay, you’re going to give them an aneurysm,” Silas finally says to Caleb, and Caleb just laughs. “I saw it outside an antique store for fifty bucks.”
“Oh, thank God,” I sigh immediately.
“That was unkind,” Levi says.
“I thought you’d had some sort of break with reality,” I tell Silas. “The duality of the hospitality experience? Get the fuck out of here.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” Levi says, very, very politely.
“Yes. That,” I agree, still looking at the statue.
“But you’re also taking it away, right?” Levi asks.
That gets a laugh.
“It’s still a gift,” Silas says, crossing the porch and heading for the front door. “I can’t take back a gift. It’s rude.”
With that, he and Caleb go back inside and leave us standing on the porch together.
“I think she kinda looks like you,” Levi says. “You know, she’s got your eyes. And your fish.”
“I can’t tell if this is Silas still being slightly angry or Silas trying to tell us that he’s no longer slightly angry,” I say, and Levi just sighs.
“It’s a mystery,” he says. “Would you like another drink? I’d like another drink.”The party stragglers are finally gone by ten, and at ten-fifteen I’m lying on the couch, the coffee table next to me strewn with empty glasses, plates, and copies of The Atlantic with my story in them.
Yes, I have a bunch of copies and display them prominently in my own home. If not here, where?
In the end, faced with the photographic evidence, Marjorie and her husband Donald pleaded guilty to their forest crimes and got reduced sentences, which turned out to be fines and no jail time.
