Chapter Four #3
Beyoncé had applied the moleskin herself. Hugh had offered, but she hadn’t seemed ready to let him touch her feet. Still, Hugh had been the one to cut it—with the scissors on his pocketknife.
No, it didn’t stay on. Does moleskin ever stay on?
No, she did not seem in pain.
Did they have snacks? Of course, they are human beings, just like us.
Clif Bars.
No, just normal Clif Bars. Oatmeal Raisin Walnut for her, Blueberry Almond Crisp for him. Hugh had kept the wrappers, and showed the hikers, though he didn’t let them touch the wrappers, either.
“I think,” said Dr. Rubin, cheerfully, “that we can continue this conversation on the trail!”
Minds and hearts abuzz, the Ramblers set out. The collie ran ahead. The other hikers jostled to be closer to Hugh, leaving the Krzelewski-Petrosians in back with Dr. Rubin.
Miles introduced himself. He had appreciated her email, he said.
Serena Rubin looked puzzled for a moment, and then smiled. “Ah, yes, of course!” She was glad; their summer intern had come up with it. She worried it was too chatty, but the organization was a little sleepy, and they were trying to make it welcoming for young people.
Miles, thinking of the reply, said it was fine—yes, perhaps a little chatty, but on balance—
Kate asked about the woman’s academic pedigree. Olive asked if they would see any owls. Dr. Rubin said that it was unlikely at that time of day, but she shouldn’t give up hope. She asked if Olive knew any local owls.
Olive did not.
“My favorite is the barred owl,” said Dr. Rubin. “Even if it is a bit of a bully.”
Wesley, who was listening, shared that the great horned owl, the eastern screech owl, and the long-eared owl also lived in the area.
Miles and Kate looked at each other. As with much of Wesley’s knowledge, it wasn’t clear when and how these facts had been obtained.
“Looks like we have an owl expert,” said Dr. Rubin, brightly.
“Well, not an expert,” said Wesley.
Up ahead, the group had stopped. Secretly, Miles hoped Hugh was dishing more gossip, but instead, the guide announced that he would use the moment to give a small talk about meadow ecology.
And he explained that this field, which had once been grassland, had been colonized by larger flowering species such as goldenrod, evening primrose, and Joe Pye weed.
With the name of each species, he broke off a flower as an example, and Serena Rubin winced.
Joe Pye, he said, was an early English settler.
Wesley raised his hand and Hugh called on him. “I thought Joe Pye was a native Mohican healer actually named Shauquethqueat,” said Wesley.
“Hey, hey, there, little professor,” said Hugh.
“At least, that’s one theory,” said Wesley, quietly, now that everyone had turned to look at him.
“Everybody’s got a theory these days,” said Hugh. “Another theory is that he was an early English settler.”
“I didn’t read that theory,” said Wesley.
Truth and falsehood glowered at each other across the goldenrod.
Hugh seemed to have gotten very angry, very fast. A muscle in his jaw tensed.
Miles was trying to think of something to say to break the tension when there was a rustling in the grass.
Everyone jumped a little. A woman asked if there were venomous snakes.
Hugh gave a short, snorty laugh. Could she believe it, but Jason-Z had the same question. But the answer, fortunately, was no, no venomous snakes in Vermont.
“Actually,” said Wesley very quietly, “there are two localized populations of timber rattlesnakes, in Rutland County.”
The group grew still again.
“It’s true,” said Dr. Rubin, behind him.
“Like I said,” said Hugh. “Everybody has a theory.”
“Yes, everybody does,” said Dr. Rubin. “But that doesn’t change the existence of the snakes.”
Given that Hugh’s small talk on meadow ecology had so far consisted of naming three very common plants, Miles expected him to continue.
But he seemed to have reconsidered. Now they would be leaving the meadow and heading into the woods, he said.
They wouldn’t be stopping that often, but if anyone had any questions, he’d be up ahead. The group began to file behind.
“Rattlesnakes!” said Kate to her husband.
“Worried?” asked Miles.
“Not really. But someone should warn Beyoncé.”
—
The hike was four miles, and the group separated into two principal clusters, those who wanted to learn ecological facts from Dr. Rubin and those who wanted to hear celebrity gossip.
Both Kate and Miles had the same thought, which was that there would be many opportunities to learn to identify the leaves of chestnut oaks, but this was a rare chance to hear about a K-pop star who’d had a crippling panic attack and had to be carried out over Hugh’s shoulder.
And, honestly, Reader, which group would you choose?
But there were Wesley and Olive to consider, and at a certain point, Hugh started a long story about getting baked with the rebellious daughter of a Supreme Court justice, and so they drifted back to the wholesome ambulatory font of knowledge that was Serena Rubin, Ph.D.
And, wow, was she a font of knowledge! Soon Miles found himself wondering if there was any plant or animal the woman didn’t know, while Kate secretly reminded herself that the woman knew nothing about Milton.
Even Wesley recognized competence; to his parents’ surprise, he had brought along a little notebook, quizzed the good Dr. Rubin constantly, and carefully took down the names of plants and mushrooms, with an intensity that raised conflicting feelings in Miles, proud of the dutiful student, but a little uncertain if such note-taking was truly age-appropriate.
He reminded himself that he himself was a person who had spent a summer learning Basque while his best friend, Frank, was learning to unclasp a bra at camp.
And he’d turned out…Well, he’d turned out the way that he’d turned out.
Olive, meanwhile, also wanted to make a list of plants and mushrooms, and asked her mother for her sketchpad.
Kate hadn’t brought it, Miles hadn’t brought it, but Serena Rubin rummaged about in her backpack and fished out a field notebook, her field notebook, the one she used for actual, scientific field-notes, and Olive looked up at her with such awe that Miles knew that, for a moment, if a brief moment, in the hierarchy of love both he and Kate had been eclipsed.
Now there were two little students, neither of whom had previously walked more than half a mile without complaining to their parents, striding briskly beside their mentor.
They caught up with the rest of the group in a clearing in the forest, where an old stone wall curved gracefully through the trees.
Hugh was holding forth; Miles heard “really bad place for a tick,” before Hugh saw the stragglers and said he thought it was time for lunch.
All agreed. It was a lovely little glen, damp and dark and quiet, and as they sat, Serena Rubin, in a hasty attempt to head off more disinformation, mentioned that the hemlocks above them and the cinnamon ferns and the Russell’s boletes on the forest floor were part of an ecosystem that was particularly threatened by an invasive little insect called the woolly adelgid, which wasn’t nearly as cute and cuddly as it sounded.
They sat. Food came out; the rich odors of the glen were joined by a potpourri of artisan mustards.
Serena Rubin had a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and Olive and Wesley asked if they could also have a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and Kate, who had packed peanut butter and jelly for herself and Miles and just jelly for the kids, had been packing just jelly for the kids since they could chew, who had begged, for years, without success, for them to try just a little peanut butter, just a tiny little bit of fucking peanut butter, now looked with envy at the woman who just had done what neither she, nor Miles, nor two pediatricians, nor The Torments of the Picky Eater, Raising a Picky Eater, Daniel Tiger Tries New Food, nor countless self-congratulatory healthy-cooking mom-blogs could do.
Hugh meanwhile had taken a Pennzoil-colored meat stick from his pack and now was back in storytelling mode, which, for better or worse, had moved on from his celebrity clients to flat-earth theory.