4 #3
It wasn’t that easy, obviously. Nothing ever was with Noah.
I picked out a tree. He told me no. I picked out another tree.
He said no to that one too. And the third one.
Because one was crooked. And because one wasn’t fluffy enough.
And because one—well, he didn’t actually say.
He just wiggled his fingers like he touched something he didn’t like, made a face, and shook his head.
Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.
Which was how we ended up spending the next thirty minutes finding the perfect tree for Noah to cut down.
That last part was a surprise to him, and he stared at me as I held out the saw.
“I don’t want to cut it down.”
“We’ll take turns,” I said. “You get it started.”
“I don’t want to take turns. Look at how cute I am.”
Tilting my head, deep in thought, I said, “I guess we could go back and find your family.”
“You’re mean.”
“I’m not mean.”
“You like this. You like doing this kind of stuff to me.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“You think it’s funny.” And without missing a beat, he said, “Give me that,” and he grabbed the saw.
But the strange part of it all was that Noah didn’t actually sound mad. He sounded like he used to. A long time ago. When I knew how to push his buttons, and he liked that I pushed his buttons.
Noah crouched; I could tell he didn’t want to do what he was eventually going to have to do, namely, lie on the ground and get his coat and leggings dirty.
He inspected the trunk of the tree. It wasn’t actually all that big—maybe the size of my forearm.
He put the saw against it and gave it a half-hearted push.
The teeth skittered along the surface of the trunk.
“I can’t do it,” Noah said, looking up at me.
In the dark, the blue of his eyes was almost black.
“Then I guess we’re going to be here a while.”
“This saw doesn’t work.”
“I don’t think the saw’s the problem.”
“Howie!” He inspected the tree again. “This is going to take forever. Why did they give us this little saw? I thought we were going to use a chainsaw.”
“Like I’d let you touch a chainsaw,” I said.
He squawked and slapped my leg.
I settled into a squat next to him. “Hold it like this. Then you’re going to lie on your side. Keep the blade against the wood, but don’t press it too hard because you don’t want it to catch.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I just told you how. Lie down.”
With a surprisingly pretty glare for me, Noah got on the ground. He wiggled around, adjusting his position. And then he set the blade against the trunk and gave it another of those half-hearted pushes.
The saw skipped across the wood.
“See? I can’t do it. Here, you do it—”
I cut him off with a sharp noise. I adjusted his hands on the saw. His fingers were warm under mine. And the metal cold. Pine needles brushed the backs of my hands, and a shiver started at the base of my spine and ran all the way up.
“Like this,” I said.
Noah gave it another try, and this time, the saw bit into the wood. He glanced over at me.
“Well, don’t stop,” I said.
He grinned like I’d made a joke, but then he turned his attention back to the saw and went to work.
I let him go. There was something peaceful about sitting there, the trees around us, the sharper smell of freshly cut pine mixing with the softer scents of sap and fallen needles and the duff exposed under scraped-back snow.
When the saw started to turn in Noah’s hands, and when the strokes came more slowly, I said, “Swap out; I’ll take a turn.”
The first look Noah sent my way was, for the tiniest moment, the fight-me face. But then it vanished, and he scooted out of the way, and I dropped down on my shoulder and went to work.
It wasn’t like I’d been lying around all day eating bonbons; I’d worked on the house pretty much from the moment I got out of bed.
But there was still something satisfying about doing this.
I didn’t have to pretend not to hear Noah’s family.
I didn’t have to try to figure out what was going on inside Noah’s head.
All I had to do was work, and it was work I was good at.
Before long, I was more than halfway through the trunk. I did a little more, and then I thumped Noah on the shin. “Your turn.”
He didn’t complain or anything. He just took my place; if he was still worried about getting pine tar on his clothes, or whatever he’d been fussing about, he didn’t show it.
I stood above him, holding the tree—we were far enough through the trunk now that it wanted to fall, and if it did, it would bind the saw, so I kept it upright and steady as Noah worked.
He flopped onto his back. He put an arm across his forehead. “I’m dead.”
“You’re close,” I said. “You finish it. Here, I’ll get it on camera, and you can show your family.”
That look floated to the surface again, and this time, it lasted longer. But he never said anything. He rolled onto his side, and a moment later, the scrape of the saw started up again.
“Almost—” He panted. “—got it.”
I had the phone ready, and I started recording. Sure enough, a moment later, there was a crack, and the tree sagged, and Noah screamed, “I did it!”
Not shouted.
Screamed.
As I lay the tree on its side, Noah hopped to his feet. He started jumping in the air, pumping his fists, screeching. “I did it! I did it! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” Every time he jumped, he tucked his feet to the side, like he was a cheerleader.
Laughter erupted at the end of the row of trees. Under the strands of lights, a group of teenagers were pushing each other, muttering, staring at Noah.
No, staring at us.
More laughter followed. And then one of the boys cried out, “Oh my God,” in the campiest voice imaginable, and another one did a little jump like Noah’s, tucking his legs in the exact same way, and they all busted a gut about that too.
I ducked my head.
Tightness in my belly.
The crouching need to make myself smaller. To grab Noah. To make him be quiet and still. So we could both disappear.
And the lick of anger, white-hot, that followed a few seconds too late.
The old me would have lost his shit. The new me, though, handled it. Mostly. I waited. I waited until that first wave of emotion washed out again. And then it was better.
Noah had stopped jumping. He was staring at me now. And he was smiling—a tight little smile that I remembered.
The laughter was fading as the boys moved on, jostling each other, one of them squealing, “Oh my God,” again.
“For heaven’s sake, Howie,” Noah said, and it was that tone. The one I remembered. “They’re kids. Grow a pair.”
His breath made a white cloud in the air, and it sparkled as it blew apart in front of the lights.
“There you are,” Marty said as he pushed his way between two trees. “Dad says there’s something wrong with his saw, and I told him the saw was fine, but he wants Howie to look at it.” His narrow face contorted. “What’s going on?”
“Noah cut down a tree,” I said.
“Noah did?”
“I’ll send you the video. Where’s your dad?”
“Over here.” And he disappeared between the trees again.
Noah was standing stiffly now, arms folded across his chest. I wasn’t sure when he’d pulled up his hood again, but it covered his face in shadow. “I just meant—” he began.
I grabbed the tree and started dragging it down the path. And as I passed Noah, voice low, I said, “This was a mistake.”