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Roman stepped in an unseen deposit of muck beneath a tree root and stumbled as the suction pulled off his shoe. He had to put his hand out and brace himself against the trunk to keep from falling. When he pulled the shoe out, it was coated with a foul-smelling mud that seeped into his trouser sock with every subsequent step.
He loosened his tie and kept moving.
Between sixth grade and seventh, being a Boy Scout had lost whatever cachet it might once have had and became laughable. But Roman was already laughable. He was a brown boy with big lips and big eyes, and everyone knew about his father serving a life sentence at the maximum security prison in Waupun. Everyone knew about his dead mother. Everyone knew Patrick, and they must have seen the distance between them that Roman tried so hard to obliterate.
The troop leader dispatched them to ring bells for the Salvation Army, make Pinewood Derby cars, sell popcorn. Roman earned one merit badge after another and pored over the handbooks in the attic. He learned knots and the ways of the woodsman. How to treat Our Country’s Flag. Wood lore, emergency shelters, orienteering. He dragged out Patrick’s old external frame backpack and practiced packing and repacking it with only the essentials.
He imagined his world reduced to knife, tarp, compass, bandanna.
He recited the Pledge of Allegiance in the morning and prayed to God to make him stronger and more worthy.
God would listen. He had to, because Roman and Patrick wanted the same thing. In Patrick’s office, Roman had seen the file labeled with his name, kept inside the locked cabinet so that he could read it only if he fished around at the bottom of the pen-and-pencil cup for the key.
Jesus teaches us to turn the other cheek. I’d like to practice forgiveness by caring for this boy, if I’m able to.
Patrick had made the appeal to a committee at the Department of Children and Families. The social worker assigned to Roman had questioned the wisdom of leaving a three-week-old infant with a man who’d lost his wife to an act of violence perpetrated by Roman’s father. Patrick’s response was six pages long, single-spaced, full of distinguished, earnest declarations.
It’s what my wife would have wanted.
It’s the right thing to do.
I’d like to practice forgiveness. If I’m able to.
Patrick was a social worker for the diocese, a man who believed in second chances, forgiveness, faith. A good man.
God would grant him this wish.
Roman stumbled and wiped his forehead with the flat of his hand. Too hot to be moving. Ninety-five degrees, and he had no water. Ashley would scold him if she knew.
He had to keep away from Ashley.
He took off his tie and cinched it around his head to hold the sweat from his eyes.
The trail blurred and came into focus again. His mind was two decades in the past. When he spotted the campground ahead and realized he was on a loop, he turned around and plunged into the woods.
He’d yearned for this once—for a patch of wilderness to be tested in, for circumstances worthy of heroism. In his fantasies, Samantha’s girlfriends sprained their ankles or floundered in the pool, desperate for rescue. Roman dressed their injuries, dragged them to safety, and always Patrick stood at the sidelines, watching with an approving smile.
Good job, he said. I’m proud of you.
When Roman’s scout troop finally went camping, they slept in a huge canvas tent, skipped the flag ceremony, and went for a hike after dark. The scout master passed around wintergreen Life Savers and the boys cracked them between their molars to make sparks.
They called him a loser when the scout master was in earshot.
They called him a faggot when he was beyond it.
It was October. An hour before nightfall, Roman walked into the woods alone, carrying only a compass, a tarp, and a knife.
A park ranger found him four days later, too weak to walk.
He spent a few nights in the hospital, rehydrating and getting spoiled by the nurses. Samantha had hugged him and wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. She brought him books to read and told him again and again, We thought you were dead.
Patrick spoke in his calm, wise voice to visitors. He discussed Roman’s condition with the doctor and filled out the necessary paperwork. But when the room was empty of anyone but the two of them, silence echoed off the walls, and Roman didn’t know how to erect boundaries around his experience.
Afraid. Lost. Tired. Cold. Hungry. Brave. Those were the words he was supposed to say, but they didn’t fit. They weren’t what he would tell Patrick if only he could convince himself that Patrick wanted to hear what was in his heart.
I breathed alone in the dark, cold, curled into a ball under a damp piece of plastic, and I felt as though I had always been there. I knew that somewhere was a road, and down the road there were people watching movies, eating potato chips, kissing. I knew there were church picnics and inside jokes, weddings and baptisms, Christmas presents and birthday parties, but I couldn’t get to them.
I was alone. I’ve always been alone.
